


the end of the war

by e_va



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Ben is alive, Blood and Violence, But Completely Recontextualizing Them To Suit My Own Purposes, Canon Divergence - No Sparrow Academy, Five-centric, Ft. Taking Things Randomly From The Comics, Gen, Honestly Not As Dismal As I'm Making It Sound, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Implied/Referenced Violence Against Animals, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Underage Drinking, Visual/auditory hallucinations, Vomiting, pseudo-cannibalism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:53:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26607790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/e_va/pseuds/e_va
Summary: There's nothing Five won't do to keep his family safe.  He's killed people, traversed time itself, survived the actual Apocalypse.Whatever idiot thought that they could break into his home and take his family is in for a rude awakening.
Relationships: Number Five | The Boy & Allison Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy & Ben Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy & Diego Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy & Klaus Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy & Luther Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy & The Hargreeves (Umbrella Academy), Number Five | The Boy & Vanya Hargreeves, The Hargreeves Family
Comments: 71
Kudos: 430





	the end of the war

**Author's Note:**

> here's the thing about editing a 20k chapter. It takes FOREVER. there's probably a ton of errors in here, and I apologize for that ahead of time.
> 
> important things: set in a canon-divergent world where S2 did NOT result in the Sparrow Academy--Reginald is still dead, people still remember the Umbrella Academy, and not much changed except Vanya no longer ends the world and Ben was able to survive.
> 
> Be especially mindful of the violence tag. There's a lot of bloodshed in this fic.
> 
> (title inspired by a quote from Ocean Vuong's book, On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous: "When does a war end? When can I say your name and have it mean only your name and not what you left behind?”)

Five’s coffee has been on the counter for all of ten seconds when Ben breezes into their kitchen and snatches it up.

He leans against the counter beside Five, blatantly unrepentant for his crime. Five shoots him a death glare, but Ben just smiles pleasantly back, seemingly amused by his own mischief. Then he takes a sip of his stolen drink and cringes.

“Ugh, God,” Ben makes an exaggerated gagging noise. Good, the bastard. “You drink it black, you absolute savage.”

He holds the cup out towards Five. Five rolls his eyes, unsympathetic towards Ben’s visible dismay. Serves him right.

“Yes, clearly,” Five reaches out and grabs the cup by its rim, setting it back on the counter, pointedly away from Ben. “Maybe I drink it that way to dissuade tasteless thieves from harassing me.”

“That hurts,” Ben raises a hand to his chest.

“Good,” Five says.

“Boys,” Allison looks up from her seat at the coffee table, arching an eyebrow. 

“No, no,” Diego interrupts. “This is good. There hasn’t been any bloodshed around here in a while.”

Five takes a moment to give Diego an angry look before he turns his attention back to Ben. “There’s more in the pot,” he offers. “But if you touch my coffee again, I’ll kill you.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” Ben says.

Allison snorts indelicately into her orange juice. Five whips his head in her direction.

“Oh, shut up,” he tells her, though he forgives the affectionate hand that Ben runs through his hair. Allison grins at him and then, apparently unable to resist, tilts her head back and laughs.

Five groans, turning resolutely away. He cannot deal with their nonsense this morning. He lifts his mug up to his mouth and takes a sip, cheeks burning with the effort of keeping his own lips pressed into a flat, unhappy line.

“Going somewhere, Ben?” Diego remarks, and it is then that Five takes note of the sketchbook under Ben’s arm.

Ben shrugs. “Just out back,” he says, as he finishes pouring his own cup of coffee, complete with a generous amount of cream and sugar. Not exactly healthy, but Ben’s still relearning earthly delights, so Five doesn’t exactly begrudge the indulgence. “Nice day out. Thought I’d do some drawing.” He flexes his fingers a little bit, grip tightening around the sketchbook, and smiles nervously. “It’s been a while. I mean, seventeen years. Talk about out of practice.”

“Oh,” says Vanya from the doorway. “Can I join you? I want to try…”

Her voice trails off and she presses her lips together, shifting uncertainly in place.

Diego looks up and raises an eyebrow. “Your violin?”

Vanya glances away, sheepish. “Yeah. I don’t know. Dad always pushed it on me, but I do kind of miss it,” she admits. “Plus, when I was…” she makes a violent gesture. Five thinks she means: _trying to destroy the world_. “The violin made everything easier. So, now I’m wondering.” 

She stops there. Five considers it.

“You want to use your violin as a focus,” he surmises.

She smiles. “Is that dumb?” 

“Not at all,” Allison says. “Actually, I think that it’s a great idea. But you need something to aim at. Maybe Luther can drag some targets out there for you?”

Apparently Luther’s up earlier than usual this morning, because after a beat he shouts from upstairs: “What? I heard my name! What am I being volunteered for?”

And then, Klaus, sounding for all the world like he’s just been woken up, yells back: “Guys! Stop screaming! Some of us are trying to fucking sleep!”

“Oh my God,” Allison says, getting up from her seat. She wedges herself in the doorway, shoulder to shoulder with Vanya, and cranes her neck to shout up the stairs: “It’s ELEVEN AM, asshole! Get up!”

“I hate you!”

“Right back at you!” Allison clears her throat and then turns back around, smiling pleasantly. “Anyways, I think that’s a lovely idea, Vanya.”

“Thanks,” Vanya looks pleased, and then pauses. “Wait, I’m sorry. Ben, we can do this another day. I can just practice like normal. I don’t want to distract you from your art.”

“Oh,” Ben’s head jerks up, his eyes wide. He still startles when anyone other than Klaus addresses him first. Five leans in a touch, letting his elbow knock companionably against Ben’s. Ben blinks. “Me?” Ben asks, then looks inordinately pleased when Vanya nods. He’s still grinning widely when he shrugs and says, “Whatever you want is fine. I’m used to Klaus, so...”

“I think I might just practice like normal,” Vanya says after a moment’s thought. “I’ve missed watching you draw, Ben.” A pause. “Besides, it’s a nice day. I think I’d like to just enjoy it. What about you, Five? Care to join us?”

Five takes another sip of his coffee. It’s a tempting offer, he has to admit. There’s something pleasant about today, and he kind of wants to bask in the glow of it. Enjoy this new, unruined world for a bit.

“Actually,” he says. “I was thinking I might go on a walk. You’re right. It is a nice day.” God knows, it’s been a while since Five has seen one of those. “I’ll join you after, though.”

“Oh,” Diego chimes in. “You should invite mom.”

Five ponders this for a moment. Their mother is good company, and she probably won’t harass him verbally, unlike some _other_ people he knows.

“Sure,” Five shrugs. It’ll be…fun.” That’s not a word he’s had much chance to use in the past, but maybe it’s time to start.

That should have been his first warning, Five will think afterwards. He doesn’t get nice days. And he certainly doesn’t get days off. 

He should have seen it coming from a mile away.

“How odd,” Grace says, as they make their way back up the steps to the front door.

Five pauses, takes a look around, and sees…nothing. The street’s not as busy as it usually is at this time of day, but otherwise it all seems unremarkable to Five. He’s still pondering whether he should ask her to elaborate or simply dismiss it as a strange quirk in her programming when she speaks up again. 

“Someone must have come by,” Grace tilts her head to the side curiously, a perfect curl falling over her ear. She reaches out, runs a finger up the railing thoughtfully. Five’s chest tightens. “The camera’s broken.”

Five twists around, following her gaze.

It’s ridiculously easy to miss, even for someone with Five’s training. Their father had spared no expense, and the camera at their front door is small and subtle. All dark, reflective glass. Easy to miss. And right now, it’s shattered. Broken, a small hole right in the center of the lens, cracks spiderwebbing out from it.

 _Someone_ , Grace had said, like they were talking about a lunch guest or some proselytizing door-to-door missionary. But Five knows what a bullet hole looks like.

Grace must sense the way his heart skips a beat, because she reaches out and catches his hand in her own, giving it a comforting squeeze.

“Darling?” she asks, concerned.

“Mom,” Five says, pulling away. “Wait here.”

Five doesn’t bother with opening the door. Just warps in with a flash of blue light, landing in the entryway of their home.

His family is gone. Five knows that much right away. There’s no one thing that tips him off. It’s the eerie quiet; the suspicious absence of bickering. It’s the way that he can hear the sink running in the kitchen, but no one moving around. 

It should be nothing. It could just be a coincidence. But it isn’t, and it can’t be. Their family has never been that lucky, and Five is too good at his job to make anything but the correct assumption. 

Something is wrong. The sense of peace and calm that had settled over him like a cloak this morning, that Five had been desperately clinging to, evaporates, and for a moment Five forgets how to breathe.

“Guys?” Five calls, just to be safe. It’s dangerous to make too much noise if there’s someone in the house, but the others have been making a fuss about Five’s paranoia recently, and he has been trying his best to accommodate. “Klaus? Ben?”

But no one responds. Something white flashes in the corner of Five’s vision, and he jumps across the room on instinct. But there’s no one there. The movement was just ash, fluttering down from above. White and feathery, drifting slowly through the air. Five brings a hand up to grip at his hair.

 _Not real_ , he tells himself. He’s still inside, and the ceiling couldn’t have burned up without him noticing. It simply couldn’t have. 

But when he looks up, he only sees the sky, ashy and gray where he swears to God that it had been pure blue just minutes ago.

Not real, not real, not real.

Five forces himself to drop his hands back down to his sides. The sink is still running, somewhere off in the distance. He wants to panic, to drop to his knees and hyperventilate. But he can’t. 

Someone came into their house, and Five’s siblings were here. And if they were okay, they’d have come when Five called, which leaves two options: _dead or missing_. It must have been a professional job, because for all Five mocks their skills, only a professional would be good enough to pull one like this over on them. 

Five knows, because he’s a professional too.

 _Dead or missing_. If it’s the latter, Five needs to hold it together long enough to track them down. 

And if they’re dead…

He takes a breath. No, he can’t jump to conclusions. He clenches his hands into fists to stop them from shaking at his sides. Dead or missing. Be a professional, Number Five. What would he do if this was a mark’s house?

He’d sweep the perimeter. Okay, Five can do that. That’s easy.

He goes into the living room. The glass table that Allison had been so proud of picking out when they redecorated lies shattered on the carpet. Some of the shards are bloody. The size, shape, and general location of the pieces suggests that they’d broken in a radial pattern. Someone had been slammed into the table deliberately, likely to incapacitate them. Five’s used that move on targets before, when he was younger and large enough for such a thing to be tenable. 

There’s a portion of the glass that is disturbed, though. Judging by the blood, Five is fairly certain that it’s a drag mark. Someone had been thrown through the glass, and then yanked backwards by their ankles. Five hopes that one of his siblings was the one doing the throwing, though he knows that it likely wasn’t. This is the only sign of a scuffle in the room, which means that the person thrown into the table was incapacitated quickly, and if Five’s siblings had been doing the incapacitating, they’d still fucking be here.

He represses the shudder that passes through him and focuses on sweeping the rest of the house. In the garden, he find’s Ben’s sketchbook face down on the ground, open to an incomplete sketch of their garden. Towards the right of the image’s frame is an outline that is clearly intended to be Vanya, sitting on the bench beneath some windows, violin tucked under her chin as she rests the bow lovingly against its strings.

Five flips the sketchbook shut with a sharp exhale. Other than this, there’s no sign that anyone else was ever here. No sign of struggle, no blood or property damage. Whoever had taken Ben and Vanya out had done so from a distance. Before they could react. Perhaps even before they realized there was any threat here at all.

Because of course they hadn’t. They’d been home. The Apocalypses were over. They’d had every reason to believe they were safe. Even Five had let himself be lulled into complacency.

He should have known better. Should have been here to watch their backs.

Would have, could have, should have. Five’s entire life has destroyed and rebuilt itself on the memory of the path not taken more than once before.

There’s more blood in the kitchen; a small smear of it on the corner of one of the counters. Some of the wooden paneling in the study is cracked—if Five had to guess he’d say that it’s from Luther’s fist. 

In Diego’s bedroom, he finds a tooth. It’s yellowed with age and has a gold filling. No way is it his brother’s. That’s…one almost-victory for them, then. Five hopes, at least, that it had a hurt a hell of a lot. 

It’s on his way back down the stairs that he sees it. He swears that he scoured this floor thoroughly already, but he rushes past the open door of one of the second-floor bathrooms, catches sight of the blood smeared across the tile, and skids to a stop so suddenly that he nearly trips and falls.

The blood is so dark that it nearly looks black, and there’s a lot of it. Five swallows down the taste of bile in his mouth. 

_Pretend it’s a mark_ , he tells himself as he stumbles into the bathroom, drawn inexorably closer, pulled as if by a string.

Except there is a corpse in the bathroom. 

There is a corpse in the bathroom, and it’s Klaus. 

The world slips out from beneath Five at the sight, which knocks the air out of him more effectively than any punch to the gut.

Klaus is laying prone, flat on his stomach. His face is pale and grey, one of his arms sprawled out behind him at an awkward angle, wrist turned up so that his tattoo is visible. The room around him is smeared with blood, though Five can’t see where it’s coming from. 

Like a mark, Five tells himself. Pretend it’s a mark.

But it isn’t. It’s Klaus. His brother. His brother—

Five doesn’t have time to brace himself against anything before he falls to his knees, swaying. And before he can even start to regain his balance, he’s leaning over and vomiting violently onto the floor. He can feel the ash fluttering down from the ceiling, landing in his hair and onto his shoulders. There’s a strange gasping, keening noise in the distance. It occurs to Five, eventually, that it must be him making that sound, but he can’t quite bring himself to stop.

Five’s head feels too heavy to lift. He’s not crying, thank God, but he _is_ hyperventilating. His body actually shuddering with the force of it. Klaus is dead. He’d been so sure—he’d already _checked this floor_. Klaus had been dead, and he’d walked right past it. 

Wait.

No.

No.

Five had checked this floor. He’s a fucking professional. He wouldn’t have missed an entire room with a corpse in it. He just—he just wouldn’t have.

 _Uh-oh,_ he hears Dolores sing in his ear, always the voice of common sense. _Five, my dear. You’re cracking up._

But Dolores isn’t really here to say that to him, nor is there really ash coming down from the ceiling. And Klaus isn’t laying on the ground, dead. 

Five’s not sure how he missed the resemblance. The positioning of the body, the length of Klaus’ hair, the suit that he’s only ever seen Klaus in once…

This can’t be Klaus, because this is ripped straight from Five’s memories. Five takes a deep, shuddering breath, and almost chokes on the memory of ash catching in his throat, just as it had on the fateful day over four decades ago. Knowing that it’s a hallucination isn’t always enough to make it go away. The vision of Klaus’ corpse remains, as does the blood. 

He definitely should have seen it earlier; the blood smeared everywhere is consistent with a struggle, but Klaus’ clothes, though dusty, are unstained. Not to mention the stony grey pallor of Klaus’ face is consistent with someone who’s been dead longer than the handful of hours Five was gone.

He reaches out to touch it. Theoretically, his brain could trick him and replicate the sense of touch. It’s happened to Five before, usually while in the throes of fever

But there are still some small mercies left in the world, and Five’s fingers pass through the vision of Klaus’ body. Okay, okay. He forces himself to stand, having allowed himself his moment of weakness, and stares resolutely at the wall away from Klaus’ false corpse. 

It takes all his willpower to leave the room, to slam the door shut behind him. Five wants nothing more to collapse again. He still feels a little like he’s not getting enough air, but he needs to focus. 

Klaus isn’t in the bathroom. _None_ of his siblings are here.

 _Dead or missing_ , and if his siblings are dead no one would have bothered to move the corpses. Which means the answer is: missing.

Five can work with missing.

And then he jolts. Good God, he’s stupid. 

The fucking security cameras.

They’d torn out all of their father’s cameras when they’d moved in for good, all except the ones at the entrances. And though the one up front was broken…someone had to have broken it.

Five doesn’t bother walking. He jumps straight to the security room, sliding into the chair in front of the computer and pulling up the footage with practiced ease. He’d only been gone a couple hours, and the blood he’d found had been dry, which means that he’s got a very narrow window of time that he has to scour for footage. As such, it doesn’t take him very long to find what he’s looking for.

At 11:45 a.m., a large white van pulls up in front of their house. Which is practical, Five supposes, considering the size of his family, but God. Talk about cliché. Though as obvious as their choice of vehicle is, they actually aren’t totally incompetent. One dark-clothed figure gets out of the driver’s seat first. Just one. They walk up to the doorstep, pull a gun out of their pocket, and fire a single shot into the camera lens, at which point the image fritzes out for a second before going dead.

But that’s okay, because now Five has a plate number. 

These men managed to scout their home without any of Five’s family—or Five himself—noticing. They managed to surprise and subdue his entire family with only minimal bloodshed. Five has a sneaking suspicion that they wouldn’t have let him get a plate number unless they wanted him to. Unless they wanted to be tracked. That carries with it some inherently concerning implications, but Five is happy enough to oblige for now.

He calls Detective Patch first. 

“Hi,” Five says, and is rattling off the plate number halfway through her obligatory ‘ _how are you.’_

There’s a long stretch of silence, and then Detective Patch prompts, “Are you trying to get me to commit a crime for you?”

“Detective,” Five grits out. “Just do it.”

She sounds irritated by the favor, which is understandable considering that it could get her into a fair bit of trouble. But after he ignores her requests to put Diego on the line enough times, she seems to get the hint.

“Fine,” Patch growls. “I swear to God, I’m going to kill Diego when I see him again. What have you guys gotten involved in?”

“You don’t want to know,” Five says simply.

Patch heaves a sigh but concedes the point. “Give me that plate number again?” Some of the tension in Five’s chest unknots, just a little bit, as he repeats it for her. Patch is a stubborn person, but she is practical first and foremost. If she thinks lives are in danger, it’ll be a priority. 

“Okay,” Five hears a pen scratch, presumably as she jots something down. “I’ll call you back as soon as I have something. It could be an hour or two. Just…uh,” Five makes a prompting noise, and Patch sighs. “Tell that idiot he better not get himself killed, alright?”

“Oh,” Five says. “I’ll make sure he gets the message. Trust me.”

Within a handful of hours, Grace is prepping the infirmary and Five has an address, a rifle slung over his shoulder, and a handgun tucked into his jacket. He drops into the alley behind the place first, because he isn’t an _idiot_. They’ll have men guarding the front door. 

Of course, they must also know that Five is smart enough to guess that. They’re guarding the front, but they will be expecting him to come through the back. Any doubt that Five has about that vanishes right away, when he spots the white van from the security footage parked neatly against the side of the building. Yeah, they wanted him to come here.

It’s a bad move, to play into their hand like this. Ordinarily Five would take at least a couple hours with this, if not a day or so. He’d scout the location, track the number of the guards and how they move. He’d formulate an actual plan. But it’s nearly nightfall already, and this isn’t like working for the Commission. There isn’t a dossier on his targets and what they want. He doesn’t know what they’re going to do or how long he has to act.

The risk of delaying—the risk that they might decide his siblings are expendable—is incalculable. There’s no other choice. He has to strike now.

So security doesn’t much matter to Five at this point; he’s pretty much screwed either way. Still, there are two other advantages that the back door offers that make it advantageous to Five.

The first among those is the fact that the back door seems to be mostly deserted. There’s a pizza place next door, and it seems like they use the dumpster in the alley for food waste, but other than that there seems to be little chance of someone wandering by, which is excellent for Five. It’s hard getting away with hauling all these weapons around. Being seen armed to the teeth like this would, quite understandably, get the police called on him. But Five has siblings to save.

The next reason is that, from the alley, Five can get a reasonably good view through the back windows of the second floor.

Five glances up, backpedaling slightly so that he can clear up his line of sight into the building. He ducks into the shadows, half-behind the pizzeria’s dumpster and under a fire escape. It’s a little disgusting, tucking himself between a trash bin and metal steps that clearly haven’t been cleaned in years. He feels like he needs to take a shower just from the proximity. But it will give him an extra moment before he’s noticed in the case that anyone steps out back, and that’s more than enough time for Five to jump to safety.

He lifts his binoculars to his face, peering in through the windows. There are two. One leads into a room that looks empty from this angle. The other…Five twists the focus on the binoculars. 

No, he was wrong. It’s not a second room at all. It’s a long hallway. Three guards that he can count, _at least_. A man with red hair, the back of his head and the shoulder of his suit jacket visible as he stands guard at the window, staring down the length of the hallway. A broad-shouldered woman with her blond hair tied back in a tight braid seems to be pacing the floor. Another man, with a buzzcut and sunglasses, is leaning casually against the wall, a lit cigarette dangling loosely from his lips.

Five waits. He’ll keep watch a little longer, and then try to get another angle. He has an entrance strategy, but it will work better if he can get an accurate headcount of the second floor at least. He’ll have to improvise the first floor—the front windows had been curtained, and there are no back windows.

The woman is making a circuit of the hallway. Five silently counts off the seconds as she goes. He’s just starting to think he’s got a handle on her walking speed when something _barks_ at him.

Five lowers the binoculars and turns around.

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting. Certainly not an attack dog. Five is generally not an easy man to sneak up on, and no assassin worth their salt would bring a dog to kill _him_ , much less one that was so talkative.

Five stares down at the dog that’s cornered him. It’s right in the way of where Five would need to go to duck away from the dumpster and out from under the fire escape. It’s a small-looking thing, with wiry orange and white fur, ears flopping over into its face.

“Shh,” Five tells the thing, binoculars still in aloft in one hand. He shoos at it with the other. “Scram, you little mutt.”

The dog, however, is undeterred. Instead it sits on its haunches and tilts its head curiously. And then it starts barking again, somehow louder than before.

“Holy shit,” Five says, unsure whether he should be irritated or a little impressed by the sheer _volume_ of the noise the creature is somehow creating with its tiny dog lungs. “I’m working. Shut up.”

The dog ignores him.

“I don’t have any food,” Five tries, to little avail.

The barking is echoing in the alleyway, and Five is suddenly pressingly aware of the fact that the mutt is a screaming beacon giving away his location. 

“This is a covert operation,” Five tells it. “You’re compromising my mission.”

The dog goes quiet. Five blinks. It edges closer, panting. 

And then yaps at him again, tail wagging.

“I don’t know what you want!” Five hisses. The dog does not seem to care about Five’s confusion, and is, in fact, very vocal about telling him so. “You know what?” Five jumps onto the fire escape with a flash of blue light. Now standing above the dog, which is still making a racket, Five brandishes a finger in its direction. “I don’t have time for this.”

He pauses.

“I’m talking to a dog,” he says to himself, grimacing internally. He’s fallen so far.

Five doesn’t bother jumping up to the rooftop, just clambers into position using the fire escape. Disgusting though it is, he needs to conserve his energy for the fight that is inevitably about to come.

The second angle does confirm Five’s earlier suspicions. No guards in the one room. Three stationed in the hallway. There are two other rooms that Five can count, further down the hallway. There could be guards in those too, but that will be easier to plan for once he clears the hallway.

He’s just about to launch himself across the distance between the rooves when the back door swings open.

Three thugs stagger out into the alley. Mostly nondescript, and hard to distinguish in the dim light. These ones are wearing helmets, which gives Five pause. The guards on the top floor are either lazy, or stupidly confident that he won’t come in from above.

Or, third option: they’re trying bait him into a trap. The other two possibilities are to be expected, but if it’s the third, this entire plan goes out the window.

“You see anyone?” says the guard in the lead.

“Nothing,” says another. “Just that fucking dog.”

“Jesus Christ. It’s a distraction. Get rid of it, will you?”

Oh.

Oh, they wouldn’t. Five isn’t as soft on animals as some of his siblings. Not like Luther and Klaus, who insist on making regular visits to the local pet store to make longing eyes at the kittens. Not like Ben, who’d once made a very sweet, and utterly futile, attempt at asking their father for a dog as children. It had happened a few months before Five had stranded himself, and Ben had dressed it up in some nonsense language that their father wouldn’t hate on principle alone, standing perfectly at attention in a way that he usually tried to avoid, because it hurt him to arch his back.

Their father had hummed after Ben gave his spiel. He’d almost sounded thoughtful, peering at Ben through his monocle the way he did when someone was saying something that he considered worth hearing. That happened only very rarely, and usually only with Pogo. The fact that Ben was holding their father’s attention at all was impressive.

“I see,” Reginald Hargreeves had said, after Ben had finished his speech. “I commend the research that you have put into this endeavor. It pleases me to hear that you’re taking a greater interest in your training. You have been far too reluctant until now. However,” their father said, and the hope visibly drained from the line of Ben’s shoulders. “I must reject your proposal. There will be no animals or,” he sounded vaguely disgusted, “ _pets_ of any sort in this house.”

“I see,” Ben had said. He was keeping it together remarkably well. “Can I ask why, sir?”

“It’s quite simple, I’m afraid,” Reginald said, matter-of-factly. “I fear you would only kill it anyways.”

Ben hadn’t flinched. Just dipped his head and apologized for wasting their father’s time. But Five had never forgotten the look on Ben’s face when he’d turned back around, the glistening eyes and perfectly blank expression that meant Ben was crushed.

So Five’s siblings? Five’s siblings _like_ animals. Five himself, though, is far more neutral on them. 

It feels hypocrital to claim too much affection for them, even dogs—no, especially dogs, because the truth is that he’d be a liar if he said he’d never shot one. Plenty of his targets had had guard animals, though Five had tried to avoid killing them if he could. As a general rule, he tried to side-step all unnecessary killing. If it wasn’t on the dossier, killing it was a complication. But sometimes it had been the only way, and Five had never let it get to him.

This, though, is simply gratuitous in a way that turns Five’s stomach. Not that it matters. He has a family to save, and he can’t get sidetracked.

One of the figures in the alleyway lifts their handgun. Five stares at the door they came through. It’s closed behind them. 

He supposes, if he’s quick and quiet about it…

Five swings his rifle off his back, lines up his sights in one smooth movement, and snipes the one aiming for the terrier first. It takes a fraction of a second from start to finish. 

The head of the figure holding the gun snaps off to the side with a crack. Perfect head shot, Five senses it even before his eyes register it properly.

A chunk of their skull flies off, falling into the gutter. 

The helmets aren’t bulletproof, then. Good to know.

One bullet is enough of his personal arsenal wasted on this lot, though. Five loosens his grip on the rifle, then steps off the edge of the roof and into the alley. He takes the gun from the hand of the corpse on the pavement, ignoring the viscous substance spilling from the crown of their blown-off head. The other two figures are whipping around, attention caught by the flash of light that had accompanied his jump. 

Too slow, of course. He’s already behind them.

“Evening, gentlemen,” Five says, and shoots them both dead. 

He turns the stolen handgun over and removes the magazine. Helpful as the extra weapon would be, he’s carrying enough extra weight on him as it is. Five tosses the magazine into the dumpster and then ejects the chambered round.

The dog is still barking.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Five says. There’s no time, though. Guns are loud; his own ear is ringing from that rifle shot. Five doesn’t doubt that his siblings’ kidnappers heard the commotion. “Don’t you dare bite me,” he tells the dog, and crouches down to pick it up.

Another jump carries them back to the rooftop. Not the pizzeria, this time. Five might as well make use of what little is left of the advantage of surprise. Everyone on the bottom floor will know he’s coming; the least he can do is surprise them with the direction he approaches from.

As long as it’s not a trap. If that’s the case…he’ll improvise.

“Not a word,” he tells the dog, only to belatedly realize that the warning is entirely unnecessary. The dog is squirming happily in his grasp. And, at long last, it’s quiet.

Five blinks. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he hisses at it. “You dumb, suicidal thing!” 

The dog doesn’t seem bothered by Five’s irritation. It twists in his arms, craning its neck to lick at his face. Five makes a displeased noise. 

He puts the mutt back on the ground and discards the now-unloaded gun. 

“I’ll, uh, come back for you?” he offers, before commanding, “Don’t run off the roof.”

The dog wags its tail.

 _Cracking up,_ Dolores says in his head again, with an amused little titter. Five scowls and moves into position, over the empty room. The dog trails after him curiously, apparently unaware that it’s not going to be able to follow Five where he’s going next.

He waits a moment, until he can hear the door in the alley swing open. There’s a commotion, some shouting. Five doesn’t wait to hear what they say. Just jumps _down_.

Teleporting through walls is already something of a pain in and of itself. Jumping through a ceiling down to the floor below is tougher. Five’s jumps are easiest if he’s physically moving through them, but Reginald had forced Five to practice stationary jumps too. It’s still a major pain in the ass, though.

Five makes sure to land on the balls of his feet, quiet as he can manage. The room is still empty, thankfully. He takes a moment to rummage around, just in case there’s something useful here, though now he’s starting to suspect that it has been left alone for lack of importance, which is a shame.

Less disappointing is the letter opener Five finds in the desk drawer. It’s an old one too, thin and _properly_ sharp. Perfect. For what he’s about to do, it works even better than the gun. He turns it over in his hand so that he’s holding it in a reverse grip and tries to remember his count on the female guard, pacing the hallway. 

All of this is reliant on the guards actually being good at their jobs—the one by the window can’t have wandered off, the one pacing the hallway can’t have stopped to get chatty. And even if both of those things are true, Five is going to have to hope that he moves quick and quiet enough to keep the guard posted further up the wall, with the perpendicular view, from calling a warning.

Five makes his way to the far wall. If he runs straight ahead and through it, the guard at the window should be right there. 

“Here’s to hoping you’re actually competent,” Five says. He counts. Waits until the guard pacing the length of the hall should be at the furthest point away from them, facing the wrong direction. Then he jumps. 

He makes it through the wall with no difficulty, then collides with the guard in a tangle of limbs. Five doesn’t bother to cover the man’s mouth, just gets a grip in the man’s hair and shoves the letter opener into the man’s neck, through the carotid artery. Then he yanks them back towards the wall. Double jumping is difficult too, but Five’s had enough practice with it from his Commission days that it annoys him less than jumping from standing still.

They land in the empty room in a flash of blue light, tumbling together briefly before they hit the ground. Five rolls, twisting so that he lands on top. He braces his knee against the guy’s head as he digs the knife in deeper for a moment, the better angle ensuring a cleaner cut. Then he pulls the blade free and the man _really_ starts to bleed. It’s all over Five’s hands and wristsleeves within moments, and by the time Five disentangles himself his socks are drenched. His shorts have taken a bit of splatter as well, but the body of his jacket and his sweater vest, at the very least, are still clean. For now. 

Five doesn’t bother standing around to watch after he pulls away. He’d angled the blade deliberately, especially at the very end there. The man won’t be calling any warnings in the few moments he has left. 

From the other side of the door, he can hear confusion. That’s disappointing. Doing that unnoticed had been a longshot, but he’d still been hoping for it.

“Hanson?” the female guard calls. “I thought I heard—Jonah, did you…?”

“No, I heard it too, Cam,” says the other male guard. 

“Oh, fuck,” says the female guard, Cam. “He must be here.” There’s the sound of rustling gear. Five glances down at the body of Hanson, still twitching slightly on the ground. There’s a radio on his belt. Well, shit.

Five jumps for the door. He hadn’t gotten a good enough line of sight to the rest of the hallway from outside to guess, and the hallway is narrow enough that Five doesn’t want to jump blind and overshoot it. He swings the door open, fixes his gaze on the female guard, and then jumps. Neither of the guards are fast enough to track him with their eyes.

He hamstrings her first, the letter opener taking her legs out from under her with a spray of blood that hits him in the cheek. She topples forward, and this time Five doesn’t bother with the blade. Just gets his arm around her throat, grips her by the chin with his other hand, and twists. She topples over with an unpleasant-sounding crack, but it’s a relatively painless death.

Jonah-the-guard opens his mouth. Maybe to scream. Maybe to gasp. Maybe just in horror and fear. Five doesn’t particularly care, leveling his gun at Jonah’s head in warning.

Jonah shuts his mouth.

“You’re a smart one,” Five notes, and presses his finger to his lips in the universal sign for _quiet_. “Would hate for anyone to know I’m here before I’m ready.”

Jonah glances nervously to the window overlooking the alley, where Hanson had been standing, and where the distant sounds of commotion can be heard.

“Might be…might be too late for that,” Jonah whispers, and then flinches, pressing his eyes shut, clearly not sure whether or not Five will constitute that as a violation of his mandate to be _quiet_. 

If any of this is a trap, it isn’t of the guards’ design, then. Five’s pretty sure this Jonah fellow isn’t good enough an actor to feign this level of shock and terror.

Five shrugs. “Well,” he says. “They don’t know I’m _here._ Yet. Hand over the belt.” 

Jonah scrambles to unbuckle the tac belt, clearly struggling to strike a balance between being fast and being quiet. After a painfully long moment, he tosses it over to Five. Five catches it with his free hand and sets it on the table. 

“Are there any more guards on this floor?” Five asks. Jonah shakes his head, a frantic _no_.

“Hm,” he says. “Downstairs?”

“Fifteen,” Jonah says. 

Five smiles. “Twelve,” he corrects, jerking his head towards the commotion in the alley. Jonah goes, if possible, even more wan.

“And my siblings?” Five continues. 

“L-living room,” Jonah stammers. Five arches an eyebrow, and the guard hastens to explain. “They thought-they thought you’d come in through the front. To _negotiate_. Not—” his eyes flicker past Five, to his dead friend.

Five sighs. “Eyes on me,” he says, gesturing with the gun. The last thing he needs is Jonah getting any dumb ideas about making a run for it. “What does your boss want?”

“I don’t—he wants to _work_ with you.”

Five tilts his head to the side. 

“Blackmail me using my siblings, you mean,” he says, and knows he’s hit the nail on the head when the guard flinches. Five can’t keep from curling his lips in absolute revulsion, but he fires off his next question anyways. “How are they being held?”

“Um,” Jonah is glancing frantically from right to left.

“Eyes. On. Me.” Five cautions again. “Last warning.”

Jonah refocuses, takes a shuddering breath. “Just tied up. Strong one’s got heavy chains. The one with the mind control is gagged. The, uh, smaller woman is tranqed. She’ll be out for a while. Asian one is conscious but real out of it. Boss said his powers have a lot of collateral damage, so he won’t risk using them in an enclosed space with his siblings around.” Five acknowledges this with a noncommittal hum. That sounds about right, especially if Ben is already disoriented. “The other two are tied up the normal way.”

“Injuries?”

Jonah shakes his head, then hesitates. “I mean, I don’t know. They got a little roughed up, but I don’t think anything serious—”

“The one that’s out of it,” Five prods. “What did you do to him?”

“Uh, we hit him with…” Jonah shrugs. “Same thing we got your sister with. Bigger dose, but it wore off _way_ faster.”

Which makes sense. Five really has no idea what _having tentacle monsters under your skin_ does to your biology, but drugs have always worn off on Ben with near-ridiculous speed. Back in the day, it had made medical procedures a nightmare.

“And your boss?” Five asks. “Who is he?”

Jonah shuts his mouth and shakes his head. 

“Listen,” Five says, moving his finger from the trigger guard to the trigger. “I’m having a bad day. Now is not the time to try my patience.”

But even that’s not enough. Jonah looks resolute in his silence, and Five doesn’t have time for this. He sighs. Fine. 

“Get in the room,” Five orders, gesturing with the gun. Jonah sags in relief, turning around and marching through the open door. He makes a small sound at the sight of the corpse on the ground, which Five ignores. 

It would be most expedient to just break Jonah’s neck, like he had the female guard. But Five has a sneaking suspicion that the night has only really just begun. He sighs and tosses the letter opener to the guard. 

“Cut your jacket into strips,” he snaps. “Quickly, if you care about staying alive.”

Jonah complies with almost-frantic fear. When the job is done, Five nods. “Kick it back in my direction.”

Jonah knocks the blade towards him with his foot. Five crouches down and picks it up without the gun ever wavering. 

“Okay,” Five says. “Tie up your feet.” He talks Jonah through the knot, ensures that the bonds are secure. “Good. Now on your stomach.”

He plants a foot on Jonah’s back, binds the man’s arms behind his back thoroughly, then gags him with what little remains of the fabric. It takes about five minutes total. A complete waste of time, but at least the top floor is secured and Five doesn’t have to worry about enemies descending from above while he handles those that remain.

He makes his way down the hallway, stopping only to rifle through the discarded tac belt. There’s the walkie-talkie, which Five discards off to the side. A pressure bandage, which Five actually does pocket. A knife, a real one, which Five considers then discards. The letter opener is more subtle, and Five’s already carrying more than he’d like. Lastly, a small black device that Five takes a moment to recognize as a smoke grenade.

Oh. Nice. Now _that’s_ helpful. He shoves it into his pocket and then drops the now-empty belt onto the floor as he starts walking.

He reaches the end of the hall, turns the corner, and then jerks back on instinct, plastering his back to the wall. Shit. He hadn’t quite expected such an open floor plan. The hallway splits here. Off to the right is what Five realizes must be the staircase down. To the left is a large balcony that both encircles and overlooks the what must be this building’s living room.

He crouches down. People are and always have been bad at remembering to look for danger from above, so the guards in the room below—Five can count six at the perimeter from this angle alone—are scanning around them alertly. But they aren’t paying enough attention to the balcony. In part, Five suspects, because they think that three of their own are keeping watch from up here.

That’s their mistake.

He edges closer, ducking behind a tall decorative pillar as he peeks around it and peers through the gaps between the balcony’s bars. The room itself is vast. Not as large as the living space in their father’s manor, but the building’s owner clearly had no shortage of funds and favors a similar open floor plan. Though, in contrast to their father’s preference for polished wood and burnished metal, the interior of this room is all white and black marble. There’s a massive elevated fireplace embedded into the far wall, and even those rough-hewn stones are all geodes and shining chunks of gold. 

It’s ridiculously ostentatious.

Five can only see some of his siblings from here. There’s Vanya, off to the right, laid out flat on some sort of medical chair and strapped down by her wrists and forehead. These guys aren’t taking any chances with her. 

Diego is next to her. They haven’t bothered to tie him to a chair or anything, just left him on the ground. He’s sitting further back, closer to the fireplace, presumably so he can rest his back against it. There’s a bit of blood trickling from his brow, and he’s sporting a vicious black eye. He’s the only one Five can see from here that his hands bound in front of him, which is actually clever if you’re going to let him have his back to the wall, since him wiggling free from his bindings unnoticed, _especially_ if he got his hands on something sharp, would be absolutely disastrous. A dark-clothed figure has their head—turned away from the light—pillowed in Diego’s lap, and Diego is clumsily carding his bound hands through their hair. Ben, Five can only presume.

He looks like he’s in pain, Five notes, and decides distantly that someone is going to have to pay for that.

Diego’s glaring at someone in particular, someone that Five can’t see from this angle. They cast a large, looming shadow over Diego’s side of the room. 

Fuck. 

Five really hoped that he’d have more space to strategize here. But any path downstairs takes him directly into that room, and he’s got moments at best before the guards from outside realize that he isn’t _still out there_ and resume their posts indoors. Or, worse, start checking in on their radios, if they haven’t already.

He swings his rifle off his shoulder.

Six guards that he can see. That’s half. He can do that. He jumps over a few feet to a large-leafed plant in a truly massive pot. Fucking rich people. Still only six guards in his eyeline, though from here he can see Klaus sitting by Ben’s feet, expression inscrutable. Five lines up the rifle. It’s still technically visible, but the guards’ eyes are more likely to skip over black metal when its hidden amongst the greenery. And Five doesn’t need very long at all to finish the job. 

He lines up his gun with the largest guard he can see and pulls the trigger. The guards down there are wearing helmets, just like the ones outside were. His opinion of their competence drops more with every passing moment. 

Even though the room is large enough that Five is actually a fair bit further from his target here than he was in the alleyway, the rifle still does the trick. With the sound of fracturing glass, the guard crumples to the ground, a small hole in the face of their mask, and a splatter of blood on the wall behind them.

Diego jerks immediately, yanking Ben closer to his chest and attempting to bodily shoulder Klaus down so that the three of them are flat on the floor. Whether he knows it’s Five doing the firing or is just carried by instinct, Five is unsure, but he pays it little mind except to note that his meathead brother is not a total idiot after all. Not that Five has any intention of missing his targets, or even giving his enemies a chance to fire back. He’s lining up his next shot before Diego has hit the floor. Pulls the trigger. Another form crumples.

Then the yelling starts.

Aim. Fire. Another down, that’s three. Fuck it. Five jumps to the far end of the balcony. The cover is far worse over here, but the guards jerk towards Five’s old position—attention drawn by the flash of blue light—and open fire. Which conveniently turns their backs on his new position, the poor bastards. They’re fish in a fucking barrel. 

And Five’s got a better view from here to boot. Allison’s plastered herself down to the ground as well. Luther’s had to settle for pressing himself flat against the fireplace, because those really _are_ some heavy duty cuffs. They look more like stocks, except they’re solid metal. Luther’s hands are locked into them by the wrists. 

But more importantly, Five can see at least two more guards than he could before. And they’re lined up so neat and pretty too. Practically begging to be taken out, if you ask Five.

He takes the shot, and another. That’s five. He has to re-angle the gun slightly. The guard turns. He fires and catches them in the temple. That’s halfway through, including the ones that aren’t in the room.

Five smiles.

“Enough!” a voice thunders. “Number Five!”

Their leader. The one that Diego must have been glaring down earlier.

He’s a hulking beast of a man, that’s for sure. Shorter than Luther, but much bulkier, though some of it is surely that absurd armor the man is wearing. He’s got a strange sort of helmet on, all metal with a strange, glass-paneled T-shaped slit where hints of his eyes and mouth are visible.

There’s a strange circular device strapped to his chest, crackling with some sort of dark energy that puts Five on edge. Emerging from the top of it is tubing that feeds into his mask. Five makes a mental note not to aim for that device, lest it blow them all up. But the man alone isn’t enough to give him pause.

He aims for the man’s heart, a few inches up from where that strange device sits.

The bullet deflects, and Five thinks it’s just flown off into the distance until he registers the noise of a pained groan, and a muffled scream from Allison.

“Luther!” Diego says, frantic.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

“That was very foolish of you, Number Five,” the armored man says. “Haven’t you killed enough of my men today? Please, come down.”

Five hesitates, and the man laughs. 

“Hurry now,” he says. “I’m quite hungry. And I’ve always wondered…the Asian one has entire dimensions inside of him, doesn’t he? I can’t help but imagine he’d feed me well.”

Well, shit. Five sighs. He’s not entirely sure what undoubtedly sick scenario this man is getting at, but there’s no way it’s anything Five will like. 

He’d gotten more mileage out of sniping than he rightly could have hoped for anyways. 

“You have nothing to be afraid of,” the armored man coaxes. “I only wish to talk.”

One of the surviving guards startles slightly. Their expression is inscrutable from behind their mask, but the sudden turn of their head makes Five stifle a smile. He’s familiar with that sort of indignance. The Handler had been that sort of boss too; she played favorites, sure, but it was well-known that everyone else had just been meat for the grinder as far as she was concerned. Five had been one of those favorites, though he sort of wishes that hadn’t been the case. There’s just no winning with people like this.

“Fine!” Five says. He shrugs off the shoulder strap, leaving the rifle where it sits as he gets to his feet and lifts his hands up in surrender. There’s no more use for it. If he’s finishing this, it will be at close-range.

The armored man nods in acknowledgement. “The handgun too,” he says, and Five grits his teeth. Goddammit.

“Okay,” he says, unholstering it and placing it gently on the ground. At least he still has the letter opener tucked into his waistband. It’s not much, but it’s something. He raises his hands back in the air, the very picture of surrender, then gestures to himself grandly. “How do you want me? Should I take the stairs?”

The man flaps a hand. “Teleport,” he says affably. “I am _curious_ as to the nature of your power.”

Five rolls his eyes. Great. The Handler had been like _that_ too. Big on making you do party tricks simply because she could.

“I have to…” Five starts to lower his hands. He’s waiting for permission before he moves. There are rules to these sorts of things, if you don’t want you and yours to get shot. The man in armor tilts his head in acquiescence, so Five lowers his hands the rest of the way. Then, bracing his hands against the balcony railing, he vaults himself over the edge with a flash of blue light, landing on the blood-painted marble a few feet away from the man, with nothing but a soft thud for his landing. 

He’s flaunting just a bit, he’ll admit. They all have their faults, and Five’s been a showoff too long to pretend that he’s anything but. 

The man in armor remains unreadable. Five doesn’t dare look away, though he can feel the prickle on the back of his neck that tells him his siblings are staring at him. The desire to glance them over for injuries now that he’s close enough to do so is incredibly strong, but not enough to overpower the sense that taking his eyes off the man before him would be the last mistake that he ever made if he was dumb enough to do it.

Luckily, he isn’t.

After staring down Five for a moment, the man in armor casts his gaze around the room—blood spattered. Six out of…eight posted guards dead. The other four must be outside. He says, voice a grumble: “You are impressive, I must admit.”

Five smiles, a little too wide. “Oh, trust me,” he says. “I know. You’ve been,” he considers it for a moment, “inconsistent.”

A beat. “Inconsistent?” the armored man says, sounding a little surprised.

Five shrugs listlessly. “Good job on the kidnapping,” he concedes. “Very clean. Takes skill to pin down my siblings, especially all at once like that. White van was obvious, though, and,” he glances up at the second floor, then casts a pointed look at the room around them. “I’ve had much more difficult fights against much fewer people.”

The armored man nods. “I will have to ask you to introduce me to them,” he says, and Five snorts.

“Unfortunately, I doubt you guys run in the same circles.”

“And alas,” the armored man continues, “I am afraid I cannot even claim full credit for the kidnapping. I had the advantage, you see.”

“Oh?” Five prods. This guy seems like a monologuer. If Five pretends to pay attention for long enough, maybe this guy will just explain his whole plan.

“I knew what to expect because I’ve faced your siblings before,” the man glances at Vanya. “She was the only real surprise. Luckily, she seems susceptible to the same tranquilizers as your brother.”

Huh. Five probably shouldn’t be surprised. After all, back in its heyday, the Umbrella Academy had sort of made a career out of fighting supervillains. But this guy…this guy doesn’t register as even vaguely familiar on Five’s radar.

“Ah,” the armored man must register Five’s bewilderment. “I was after your time, I’m afraid. You can call me Doctor Terminal.”

Somewhere in the distance, Five can hear the four absent guards trickling back into the room. Terminal extends a hand. Five stares down at it for a moment, and then lifts his gaze defiantly. 

_Doctor Terminal_.

“I recognize the name,” Five admits frostily. He’d read about the man in Vanya’s book. No one had ever gotten so close to killing the members of the Umbrella Academy before. There had been descriptions of some of the injuries his siblings had returned home with after they infiltrated Terminal’s headquarters. Allison had nearly lost an arm, the limb more or less entirely severed. Replantation had been successful, but Five has seen the scar since his return home, encircling Allison’s arm at the shoulder like some sick, decorative band. It looks like it had hurt.

Terminal drops his hand. “You know what I do?” he prods. 

Five shrugs. “The device on your chest consumes matter and turns it into energy. Like a furnace,” he thinks back to Vanya’s description of Terminal’s crimes, “But you got greedy. And you got _gross_ about it _._ ” He doesn’t bother with trying to keep his disdain out of his voice—he’s not nearly that good a liar. For all that he was skilled at Commission work, he never took particularly well to the grift. 

Terminal shrugs, a sort of hapless _what-can-you-do?_ gesture that looks entirely wrong on a man guilty for the sorts of crimes he is. “What can I say? It prefers biological material.”

“You’re a cannibal,” Five points out.

“Only technically,” Terminal laughs. It’s a happy, booming noise. “And here I thought you’d understand, bloodthirsty little thing that you are.”

Five has to admit that _that_ rankles. It really does. But as little as Five cares for the comparison, it would look ridiculous to protest Terminal’s claims now, blood-soaked as he is, leaving red footprints behind him as he walks.

He settles for a tired sigh instead. “Y’know,” he admits, “we all have to draw our lines in the sand. I guess you just found mine. It’s nothing personal,” he tilts his head so that he’s looking up at Terminal, lips drawing back over his teeth in a facsimile of a smile. “I just find you disgusting. You know how it goes.”

There’s a muffled noise from Allison behind him, which Five thinks must be her attempt at trying to keep him from provoking Terminal any further. He can picture her face too well, drawn tight with fear, eyes narrowed at Terminal in rage behind him. He shakes the mental image off and ignores her, refocusing on Terminal.

Terminal huffs, sounding put-out. “Come now. I was hoping we could find some common ground.”

“That should be doable,” Five says. “I want you dead and,” he gestures back at his bound siblings, “you clearly have a death wish.”

“I don’t want to hurt your family,” Terminal steps forward. It’s a transparent intimidation tactic, trying to make Five feel threatened by encroaching on his space. “I simply have a business proposal.” Five arches an unimpressed eyebrow. The more of Terminal’s cards that Five sees, the more irritating this entire ordeal becomes. Terminal is reading more and more like some dumb, obsessed man-child with a narcissism issue. 

“Fine, then,” Five sighs. He rubs his hands off on the lapels of his jacket. It doesn’t get rid of the stickiness, but it gets rid of some of the blood slickening his grip. “Let’s hear it.” 

“Excellent!” Terminal sounds like he is smiling under that mask. He trudges his way over to the center of the room, where some comfortable chairs are arranged around a small wooden table. He collapses into a large armchair. “Take a seat,” he gestures to a spot across from himself.

“I’d rather stand.” Five keeps his voice pleasant. He’s nothing if not accommodating, though, so he still follows along after Terminal, coming to a stop by the chair that Terminal had pointed out. Then, after considering it for a moment, he wipes his bloody shoes on Terminal’s Persian carpet. Because why the fuck not?

If Terminal is bothered by the flagrant disrespect, he doesn’t say anything about it. 

He does sigh, though. “Very well. Suit yourself. Something to drink?”

Five pauses, leaning forward and resting an arm on the back of the chair that was intended for him. What are the chances that this is a ploy to drug him? 

“Tea,” Five finally settles on. “Just bring me water and a tea bag, though. And sugar.” 

He’d prefer coffee, but that tastes strong enough to hide any undesirable contents that Terminal might want to put into the drink. The Commission had done a lot of awful things to Five over the years, so obsessed with retooling their agents into the perfect assassins. Five in particular had been a favorite. So most poisons don’t work on him anymore, and sedatives are highly ineffective at standard dosages. Terminal’s not liable to have something to drug Five’s tea that is both strong enough to work on Five _and_ not be noticed by him immediately. Which is great. The longer that Five can stall this whole thing, the more of his energy reserves he can get back. If they give him a little bit of sugar, even better.

Terminal nods and gestures to one of the guards, who ducks their helmeted-head nervously at falling under Terminal’s direct attention and scurries off down the hallway. Five tracks their movements briefly before they round the corner and are out of sight. Then he turns his gaze back to Terminal.

“So,” he says. “Before we get down to business, I have to ask. Why did you think that any of this was a good idea?”

That earns him a hearty laugh from Terminal. Five keeps his scowl off his face, though only barely.

“Ah,” Terminal says, amused. “I confess, it wasn’t initially supposed to go this way. At first I was just after revenge. I spent fourteen years in prison because of your siblings. And this,” he pats the device on his chest proudly, “has had to double as life support for me after injuries I sustained last time. I wanted to kill them.” There’s a wet noise from inside Terminal’s mask, as if he is smacking his lips. Five fantasizes, momentarily, about shattering that glass paneling and removing Terminal’s tongue with pliers. “Power like some of your siblings are capable of producing…it must take a lot of energy, yes? Imagine what I could do with that.”

The man is clearly off his rocker. Terminal is right that for their powers to sustain themselves as they do, there must be something different about Five and his siblings, biologically speaking. But years of testing by their father—and some by the Commission on Five’s part—have yet to reveal precisely what. And if he doesn’t know what that energy is, Terminal has no way of knowing whether his machine is even capable of converting it—if all that excess power will just fizzle out and go to waste, or worse, overload his little battery and light him up like a firework on the Fourth of July. 

Instead, Five says: “I see. I suppose that makes sense. So, what changed?”

Terminal leans forward slightly. “You did.”

“Mm,” Five says, unimpressed. “Flattering.”

“You were long gone by the time I first tangled with your siblings,” Terminal says. “Back when they were teenagers. I always thought it was such a waste. Helpful power like yours, just _gone_. Of course, I never could have hoped that anything would ever come of it. But when my men reported back from surveillance of your home and said that _you_ were there…I simply knew I had to arrange a meeting. Especially once I did my research.”

Five twitches automatically. “What sort of research?”

“Oh, it was difficult,” Terminal admits. “We had to track your siblings’ actions, and you just weren’t popping up on the radar. But then we noticed an uptick of violent incidents around the time of your father’s funeral, so we yanked the camera footage from the streets around each location. You did a good job dodging the cameras, I’ll admit, but no one’s perfect. You got lazy once you were a few blocks away.”

Ouch. Lazy, that’s not a word Five hears about himself often. But it’s an apt description in this situation. How could he have been so stupid?

Terminal laughs. “I have to admit that I was surprised,” he jerks his head towards the fireplace. Five doesn’t follow the gesture, but guesses that it was meant to indicate Diego. “I knew that _that_ one had gone off the rails a bit, but I had no _idea_ the sorts of things you’d gotten up to. Has that been where you’ve been all these years?”

It takes Five a moment to steady his breathing. When he speaks next, it’s through gritted teeth. “Among other things, yes,” he admits. 

“Hm,” Terminal sounds surprised but pleased. “And what else were you up to?”

Five does let himself smile then. All teeth. “You really don’t want to know.”

Terminal stays silent for a long moment, presumably studying Five. For a moment, Five thinks that the man might actually lose his patience. But before any such thing can come to fruition, the guard from before lowers a metal tray onto the living room table, then backpedals away from the both of them so quickly that Five is almost amused.

“Well,” Terminal says at last. “Your tea.”

“Thank you,” Five says. Earl grey, not bad. The water looks and smells clear. As the tea steeps, he empties three sugar packets into the thing.

“Sweet tooth?” Terminal asks, surprised.

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Five says, though the truth is that this is painfully saccharine even for him. But it will pique his energy, and it will do it fast, and that’s exactly what Five needs.

“So,” Five says. He circles the spoon in his teacup. 

“So,” Terminal echoes, sounding amused. “Business?”

“Business,” Five agrees. “Aren’t you going to have anything?”

“No, I will…” Terminal casts a glance over at one of the scattered corpses. “Help myself to a snack later.”

Five sneaks a glance over to the guards left standing, wondering if they take any offense to that. But if they do, they give no such indication. What a shame. They’ve picked such an awful man to die for.

“So you kidnapped my siblings,” Five surmises, “and decided not to kill them. And you thought that would be a good way to negotiate with me, why?”

“Well,” Terminal says, “it was more of a test than anything else.”

It takes physical effort not to grit his teeth in anger. “A test?”

“The evidence seemed to suggest that you were an experienced killer,” Terminal admits. “But there was no way of knowing whether or not it was actually you. I desired a small exam. To evaluate your abilities. But no worries,” he gestures to the blood splattered room around them. “You passed with flying colors. Clearly.”

Jesus. Even the Handler hadn’t been this casual about throwing the lives of her low-level soldiers away. 

“I’m pleased,” Five says. “I’d hate to disappoint.”

“That you have not,” Terminal admits. “I can’t say I was expecting you to come in from above.”

 _Then you’re an amateur,_ Five does not say. Just shrugs, sips his tea again.

“Yes, well, creative thinking tends to get the job done.”

“Yes, yes,” Terminal says. “Which is exactly why I’d like to bring you on.”

And here they are. Terminal has a sales pitch for Five.

Five sighs, glances sidelong at his siblings through his lashes because he can get away with the guise of anxiety for just a moment. 

Diego’s sitting up, panting slightly. Ben’s beside him, upright now, looking a little hazy. And, actually, ‘upright’ might be an exaggeration, since he’s half-propped up on Klaus’ shoulder. Klaus, for his part, looks unperturbed, but his eyes flicker occasionally to where Luther is slumped in the corner, leaking blood from a painful-looking bullet wound in his shoulder. 

Five cringes. At least it doesn’t look fatal. Vanya is still strapped down, looking unhealthily pale, and Allison is just as Five guessed—the very picture of defiant rage. If looks could kill…

Well, if looks could kill, Five would be spared what he can already predict is going to be a very long and very tedious conversation. Terminal has already proven himself to be among the most obnoxious of men, and he’s not particularly intelligent either. The only thing he has going for him at this point, Five supposes, is that he hired some _good_ muscle. Sure, Five had torn through them like tissue paper, but the guards can scarcely be faulted for that.

Five takes another drink. Time to play some chess.

“Bring me on?” he says with a faint chuckle. “I don’t think you can afford me. Good assassins don’t come cheap.”

“Oh, I am aware,” Terminal says. “But I also doubt that you are the type of man that works for money. I thought the lives of your six siblings might suffice?”

Five had predicted that move from the start, but it still sends a flash of irritation through him. He stifles it quickly, but he can’t quite keep himself from straightening his back as he tenses up. 

“I really think you’re overestimating their importance to me,” Five tells Terminal brightly. “I’m guessing that you want me to kill someone? Typical price range of someone like _me_ would be upwards of a million. Let’s be generous. Let’s say, out of the kindness of my heart, I’m doing this for you for eighty grand. You’re valuing my siblings at over thirteen grand a head?” he clicks his tongue, disappointed, brow furrowing in a way that is carefully curated to scream: _I think you are a fucking dumbass_. “Come on.”

There’s an unhappy grumble from Diego, which quickly gets shushed by Luther.

Just in time for Klaus to joke: “How dare you! I am fucking priceless.”

“Both of you shut up!” Ben sounds groggy, but no less pissed for it. 

Five lets his eyes flutter shut, just for a moment. God, even the sound of their voices is going to give him a migraine. He finally cracks his eyes open and turns back to Terminal. “You see what I mean?”

“See, Number Five,” Terminal admits, “I might just believe you, were it not for the fact that you just broke into my estate and killed several of my soldiers, all to save them.”

“Oh, I see,” Five says snidely. “You break into my house with ill-intent, and you think me tracking you down and breaking into _yours_ shows that I care about these imbeciles? You realize that these past few months are the first time I’ve seen them in years?”

“Have my theories not borne out so far?” Terminal asks.

“Demonstrably not,” Five hisses.

“Demonstrably,” Terminal says slowly. “Funny word, that. Well, why don’t we see? A demonstration. It’s an excellent idea,” he snaps his fingers and points at one of the guards. “You there. Shoot…hm. Shoot the one with the penchant for knives.”

Five doesn’t usually care much about the people that he kills. The Board had been a near thing; Five can admit that after everything, some part of him was sickeningly grateful for the chance to get his hands on them. But right now, for the first time in a long time, Five can feel hatred building under his breastbone, so strong and so sudden that it almost feels like it doesn’t belong to him. Like it’s another creature entirely, a living thing of its own.

He could try and call Terminal’s bluff, but he doubts that this _is_ one. The thing about hostages is that once you have at least one person that your target cares about, you have leverage. The more the better, sure, but you only _need_ one. Which means that Terminal has spares.

The guard unholsters their gun. There’s the sound of scattered panic from behind of him. Five purses his lips, considering it for a moment. He _could_ try and fight now. But that’s risky, and he still has other moves that he can make. 

The guard’s finger doesn’t even make it to the trigger guard before Five lifts a hand to halt them.

“Fine,” Five says. “Fine.”

They stop, glancing at their boss. Terminal tilts his head curiously and then makes a gesture that the guard clearly interprets as: _hold position_. They still, but don’t retreat, keeping their gun half-raised.

“No!” And _now_ Diego has started shouting. Great. That’s exactly what this conversation needed. _Diego’s_ help. “Five! Don’t negotiate with this asshole!”

“Shoot me instead!” Klaus interjects. “You should shoot me instead!”

“No!” Luther and Diego both snap, and in his peripheral vision Five can see Allison kick Klaus sharply in the leg, trying to silence him.

“Mm,” Ben says, a little pained, words slurring together. “Actually, if you _have_ to shoot one of us, you should shoot Klaus. He…nightclub.”

“Yeah,” says Klaus. “Me nightclub.”

“ _What the fuck are you guys talking about?_ ” says Diego. 

Five would be wondering quite the same if he weren’t pissed as all hell.

“Will you all just shut the fuck up?” Five grits out. It’s not loud, but it is venomous enough that hushed silence falls behind him.

Five turns his attention back to Terminal and huffs out a breath of air, exasperated. He can’t tell whether he wants to laugh or scream with rage.

“Okay, you caught me,” he lifts his free hand, palm-out, in vague surrender. “I lied, I do actually give half a damn about whether these idiots live or die.”

Terminal nods to the guard, who drops their gun and moves back to their old position by the wall.

“So you’ll do it?” Terminal asks.

“Mm,” Five hums. “Didn’t say that, did I?”

“You wear on my nerves,” Terminal’s voice lowers to a growl.

Five rolls his eyes. “Are you kidding me? Who do you think I am?” he shoots Terminal a sidelong glare. “I don’t actually know what the job is. You give me the details, _then_ I decide whether or not I want anything to do with this.”

A pause, while Terminal ponders. The stolen letter opener is warm against Five’s skin. 

“Fair enough,” Terminal finally says with a rumble. 

“Excellent,” Five smiles, and tilts his head in Terminal’s direction to grant him the floor. “So, you need someone killed.”

“Some people,” Terminal corrects. “Are you familiar with the Eisenstein Corporation?”

It sounds vaguely familiar. The name must have cropped up once or twice in one of the magazines or books that Five had read during the Apocalypse to keep himself occupied and distracted from his darker thoughts. The context, though, is lost on him entirely.

Five cants his head to the side and takes another drink to settle his nerves. He’s only jumped a couple times throughout this encounter, and that combined with the idle rest of this conversation has been enough to top off his reserves. The sugar is helping too, the extra burst of energy helping take the edge off the edge of exhaustion from Five’s earlier meltdown.

“No fucking idea,” he admits.

“A collection of scientists,” Terminal says. “One of whom is…an old compatriot of mine. They’ve co-opted some of the original plans for my device,” he taps the hunk of metal in question. “Before I looked at it as a source of biological augmentation, it was just meant to be a power source. My old companion and their team want to release a similar product under an open patent as a source of green energy.”

“And let me guess,” Five says, “that interferes with your business model.”

Terminal shrugs. “I make a lot of money from private contractors who are interested in keeping this technology in as few hands as possible.” 

Five narrows his eyes at Terminal’s reactor again. It doesn’t _look_ like nuclear energy, and Five has no idea how Terminal would survive the radiation if it was, but Five supposes that the principle holds true here: one man’s clean energy source is another man’s bomb.

“So you are,” Five takes a breath. “Asking me to kill a bunch of environmental scientists to keep them from interfering with your war profiteering? Am I getting the gist of it?”

“The project has been kept under wraps,” Terminal says. “Only the twelve scientists working on its development have seen the plans that we are discussing. You are to kill them and return the schematics to me.”

Ah. 

“You want to make sure no one else gets a chance to try and develop tech based off of them either,” Five guesses. Terminal wants the plans stolen and anyone who’s so much as seen them dead, and he doesn’t want people to have the slightest idea how someone even got into the building.

Which would explain why Terminal is so interested in Five. It’s one thing to call a hit on someone or steal some paperwork. It’s another to do _both_ , especially at a high-profile company, without leaving so much as a trace.

But Five could. Easily, even.

“Yes,” Terminal confirms. “It would solve…many issues for me. I could have my men handle it, but you offer a degree of discretion that they simply cannot rival.”

“I see,” Five says.

One of his siblings makes an angry noise behind him. Five ignores it.

It’s not like he’s actually entertaining the idea, after all. Not seriously. Terminal’s likely planning a double-cross, for one. He simply isn’t smart enough to _not_ try and pull something over on Five.

If it were the Handler making these threats, Five would have fewer options. The Handler had never offered him anything unless she was confident that she could push him into a corner, even though she wasn’t always right. 

Besides, the last time Five let himself get blackmailed into killing people, the literal _Apocalypse_ was on the line. He’s not going to let himself get tossed around by some big-headed prick with a passion for pseudo-cannibalism and _making a quick buck._

That’s just a matter of principle. Five may be out of the game, but he still has professional dignity.

His siblings are talking at him, but he can’t quite hear them. They sound foggy and distant.

“Guys,” Five says to them. He has to resist the urge to reach up and scrub at his ears, to see if he can rub the audio distortion away like steam on a window. “Be quiet.” 

Whether or not they go silent, Five isn’t quite sure, but the din in his own head dies down slightly. He polishes off his drink; it’s thick and sugary at the bottom from where the undissolved sugar sank, and Five grimaces at the taste of it as he puts the glass down.

“Well,” Five says. “That certainly is a job offer.”

“Not quite the reaction I was expecting,” Terminal says, sounding, if anything, _more_ intrigued. 

Five shrugs. Mainly, he just feels sort of disgusted. There had been people at the Commission who had enjoyed their work. Five was admittedly one of them. The killing itself hadn’t been pleasurable, but Five had liked the simplicity of it all. He’d liked how good he was at it. 

But there had also been a fair few who enjoyed their jobs _too_ much. People turned their heads, if an extraneous casualty or two popped up. The Commission simply hadn’t _cared_ that much, but there was a reason why Five got assigned more missions than some of the other dumbasses he worked with. He got the job done and didn’t take any detours to kill for fun, and that drew less attention. But every atrocity the Commission ever committed—justified or not—was at least done in the name of preventing the total collapse of the timeline. 

Five’s not saying that he doesn’t understand why people kill for money. But it just seems so fucking petty.

“It’s just a bit boring,” Five shrugs. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Terminal says. 

Five could pretend to accept the job offer. But no, that would involve leaving his siblings alone with Terminal, and Five has no read on exactly how stable Terminal’s moods are. The fact that Terminal has expressed an actual _interest_ in eating some of his siblings doesn’t help Five’s evaluation of the man’s mental state.

No. Five can’t leave the building. But then the question becomes: how does Five extricate his siblings without someone getting a shot off and killing one of them? Vanya and Ben are both dead weight. Aside from Luther’s bullet wound, the others don’t seem grievously injured beyond some scratches and bruises, but Five would be willing to bet that there are some cracked ribs and head injuries in the equation that he simply can’t see. Not to mention that they’re tied up. So, basically all sitting ducks.

“You’ve got me in quite the pickle here,” Five confesses to Terminal.

“Don’t do it,” that’s Luther, voice slightly strained with pain. “Five, don’t. It’s not worth it.”

That alone is almost enough to make a hysterical laugh burble up in Five’s chest. Luther has no idea what he’s talking about. 

Five shushes him without looking away from Terminal. He has one shot at this.

He slips a hand into his pocket, as casually as he can manage. Slips his thumb into the metal ring of the smoke grenade.

“So here’s the thing,” Five says. “I’d love to help. But I’ve thought about it, and I’ve decided that I’m gonna have to pursue other opportunities.” 

Terminal stands, clenching his fists. “You dare—” he starts, like some sort of cliché.

Five pulls the pin and throws the grenade. He angles it to the far side of the room, and it swallows the opposing half of the room in heavy grey smoke. Three of the guards are dead center, lost in the haze. The other three and Terminal himself are still relatively in the clear, but that’s more than enough for Five.

The grenade hasn’t even landed before Five is burying the letter opener in under Terminal’s ribs, shoving the thin blade in between the crack in the metal. 

Terminal screams. He hunches over, hands flying up to shelter his face and guard the mess of tubing that runs between the device and his mask. Five digs the blade in deeper, twisting it. Terminal curls over further with a shudder. Five has to yank his hand back suddenly to keep the armor from crushing his fingers. Christ, that’s like _plate mail_. It’s been a while since Five had to deal with that. And that’s the letter opener gone. Time to improvise.

Okay, then. He glances around. 

There’s a fancy-looking porcelain vase on a pedestal in the corner. Ming dynasty. Very old, definitely expensive. Five jumps over and picks it up. Tosses it in the air and catches it, just to get a feel of it. Yeah, this will do.

Terminal is still groaning, disoriented. The guards, briefly distracted by the explosion of smoke and the sound of their boss getting attacked, are reacting slowly, torn. But they’re already starting to regain their bearings. One of them shouts, moves to level their gun in the direction of Five’s siblings. 

Five slams the vase into their back. They stagger, grip loosening. Five grabs them, pulls their fingers back with one hand and yanks their handgun out of their hold with the other.

A push-kick to the chest knocks the guard back. They reel away, still off-balance. Five takes the added distance to line up his shot and pull the trigger twice in quick succession. The handgun is much less powerful than his rifle, so the first shot only cracks the glass. The second shatters it, and the guard drops to the floor.

Five doesn’t bother checking to see if they’re dead; if they aren’t, they won’t be getting up any time soon. He just jumps—best not to stay in one position too long—and taps one of the remaining guards on the shoulder. They turn, and Five fires first into their leg, which gives out from under them with a sickening crack, and then a few times into their chest as they topple forwards. 

The last one falls just as easily. Five doesn’t even bother jumping over, just waits for the second guy to fall before he whips around and squeezes off a shot at the last guy. The bullet catches them at the base of their helmet, where it meets the neck. They go down with a sharp spray of blood, clawing uselessly at their throat.

Terminal is still groaning and disoriented, and Five’s got maybe ten seconds left on that smoke grenade, so he turns and blindly fires off a few bullets into the smoke. Not his preferred strategy, usually, but needs must and all that. He thinks he hears the sound of at least _one_ hit flesh, which is a good sign, but he doesn’t linger on it too long.

Instead, he teleports over to Luther.

“Get the others,” Five instructs, putting a sticky hand on Luther’s shoulder. He doesn’t so much as _jump_ as he just yanks Luther a few inches to the side in a flash of blue light. Luther lurches, sounding vaguely nauseated—something which the blood loss is likely not helping. Five drops the pressure bandage onto Luther’s lap without explanation, leaning down for just a moment to grab Luther by the chin and force Luther to look him in the eyes. He only has a moment to get this across, and it’s important.

“Look at me, Luther,” Five says, as authoritatively as he can muster. “Are you listening?” Luther gives a dazed moan that Five hopes to God is an affirmation. The last thing he needs is Luther’s hero complex driving him to interfere and get in Five’s way. “Do _not_ fucking interfere. Untie the others and stay. The hell. Down.” Luther’s brow furrows, but he nods slowly. Five blows out a breath through his nose and drops his hand from Luther’s face. “Good man.” 

He gives Luther a reassuring pat on the shoulder, then walks a few feet away to where a set of fireplace tools hangs from a collection of hooks on the wall. 

Five has to go up on his toes slightly to pull a poker down. He turns it over in his hand and then gives his attention back to the rest of the room just in time to see the smoke clear.

Terminal staggers forwards.

“You son of a bitch,” he says, pressing one hand against his side. 

Five shrugs. “I just can’t let people think they can get away with doing this sort of thing. You understand, don’t you?”

As the last of the smoke dissipates, Five registers—with a vague sort of pride in his own blind aim—that one of the guards in the smoke is lying slumped against the wall, seemingly dead or unconscious. 

Another is leaking blood from their arm. Another bullet had clearly struck their mask, which is cracked, but unbroken. 

The third is unharmed, but they aren’t reaching for their handgun or the automatic rifle strapped to their back. They glance around the room, clearly cataloguing the new bodies decorating the marble. They see Terminal getting his hand around the letter opener and pulling it out with a wet noise and a pained groan. They look over at Five, who gives them a jaunty wave, because he’s honestly still feeling great. All that sugar is starting to kick in, and Five’s really buzzing. 

The guard takes it all in and makes the intelligent decision.

They run for it. 

Five respects the hell out of that, and really has no issue with it. Fighting a losing battle when you have other, better options is for idiots. He takes a step off to the side to clear the way to the front door.

But the guard doesn’t get that far. As they rush past their employer, Terminal reaches out and catches them by the arm.

The device on his chest glows brighter, then the swirling vortex inside briefly grows to consume Terminal’s whole torso. He yanks the guard violently backwards.

There’s a flash of light and a sickening crunch. The vortex closes. And the guard is gone, nothing remaining but the flecks of blood on Terminal’s helmet.

“Fucking coward,” Terminal spits. Five watches the flow of blood down Terminal’s fingers, still clenched over his side, slow. Then, after a moment, Terminal straightens his back, now apparently unpained. 

It might be Five’s imagination, but he swears that Terminal seems a little bulkier now too.

“Shit,” Five breathes. He doesn’t know exactly what this means, but it probably isn’t good. He looks over at the last guard standing, the one with the bloodied arm. They’re not moving except for minute trembles. Their expression isn’t visible, but Five knows the look. They’re frozen. Not worth Five’s attention, for now.

Off to his left, Five can see Luther unstrapping Vanya from her chair in his peripheral vision. Good, her position had been the most vulnerable. It’s nice to see that even Luther can get his priorities straight every once in a while.

“Come now, Number Five,” Terminal says. He steps forward, and Five can tell that he’s pleased to see Five shuffle back a step as well. But God knows Five isn’t dumb enough to get close after _that_. 

The problem is, of course, that the last time Five shot the guy, the bullet bounced off. Which means that Five doesn’t exactly have much choice.

The device is mounted onto Terminal’s chest. That thing works in one direction only. Five’s best chance, if he can’t keep out of range, is to keep behind him. He lays the handgun down on the table. Readies the poker.

“Fine then,” Five says, and jumps. 

He lands on Terminal shoulders. Normally he’d grapple the guy with his legs, but Five’s reluctant to let any part of him get too close to that device on Terminal’s chest, so he just digs his knees into Terminal’s shoulders, hooks the poker around his neck, and yanks backwards.

Terminal chokes. It’s hard for Five to tell whether or not the he’s pinching off the carotid artery at all through the armor and helmet, but Terminal is definitely surprised. He reels back, clearly trying to shake Five, but Five’s got one hell of a grip.

Terminal backpedals, then slams his back into a wall so hard that Five hears something in his chest crack.

Ouch, Five thinks, but he’s only consumed by the bloom of agony for a split second before he remembers that he cannot let go of his hold on this man’s throat no matter what and, if anything, his grip tightens. Thank God for adrenaline rush. 

He twists his grip on the length of metal again, trying to reangle it. And as luck would have it, Five can tell the second that he manages to properly cut off the flow of blood through Terminal’s carotid artery, because the man immediately staggers.

Only a few more seconds now, and Terminal will pass out, or at least be dazed enough that Five can destroy that damned device without unnecessary risk.

Terminal reaches behind himself, groping wildly. He finds nothing at first, his own bulk and muscle robbing him of the flexibility to reach Five. He slides to his knees, weakened by the lack of oxygen. 

Five redoubles his hold, and Terminal makes a strangled noise. Almost there.

Then Terminal’s hand closes around Five’s ankle and twists with stunning force. 

Five jumps instinctually. He’s not fast enough to avoid the blow itself, but at least he manages to hit the ground across the room instead of right in front of Terminal, where he’d be dead meat. His chest and back protest the fall, but far worse is the way that Five’s skull cracks against the ground from the whiplash of it. The poker is gone, probably having slipped from Five’s lax fingers during the jump.

“Five!” someone shouts, hoarse with terror. 

Five ignores it, which isn’t hard through the overwhelming ringing in his ears. He staggers back to his feet. His ankle screams under his weight where Terminal had twisted it. Luckily, Five is good with pain. The real challenge is his newfound concussion. The world is coming in and out of focus strangely, but Five forces himself to fight through it. He’s close. Terminal’s on his hands and knees, coughing. He’s trying to push himself back up to his feet, and failing, likely still dazed from the lack of air.

He limps towards Terminal, retrieving the handgun from the table as he does.

“Hey,” Five says. It’s hard to convey the appropriately light tone when he can’t quite get a full breath in, but he manages. “What does this do?” 

Terminal twists to look at him, the tubing that runs from the device into his helmet dangling openly. Before he can turn around fully—Five is no fool, he still has no intention of letting Terminal look at him head-on—Five fixes a hand around the tube and pulls hard. It rips out with surprising ease, a pneumatic-sounding hiss filling the air. Five warps out of the way and to the side, just in case. 

For a second, nothing happens.

Then Terminal makes a gasping noise, like a beached fish, and falls, collapsing onto his back.

Five keeps his distance for a moment longer. Then he edges closer, kneels by Terminal’s head, and unbuckles the man’s helmet, setting it off to the side. He has to be sure the job is done. 

The man under the helmet is bald, with wide features. He would be dignified-looking, were it not for the twisted expression of hatred on his face.

“Well,” Five says. He gets back to his feet, the world unsteady under him as he moves away once again. “Goodbye. I’d say that it was nice, but…” he shrugs. “You know.”

He aims for the center of Terminal’s forehead and pulls the trigger.

 _Click_. Through his concussed haze, it takes Five a moment to process why Terminal’s head is still intact. When he does, he groans. 

“You’re kidding me.” Out of bullets. This fucking day. He chucks the unloaded gun over his shoulder. Useless.

He staggers off to the side. The poker…he’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way. He finds it ten or so feet away, where its slid under a couch. Five’s ribs and ankle protest it, but he kneels down. Grabs it by the handle.

“So,” Five tells Terminal unapologetically, the tip of the poker scraping against the marble as he drags it back over. “This won’t be pleasant. But I have to be sure.”

“Five, what are you doing?” The voice is groggy. Female. That’s Vanya.

“You might want to close your eyes. You guys probably don’t want to watch this,” Five advises. 

Then he turns his attention back to Terminal and the rest of the world vanishes. Even the ringing in his ears fades away. The world is crystal clear, and all that’s left is the heft of the iron poker in his hands, and the knowledge of what he’s about to do. The thought buzzes under his skin, uncomfortable but somewhat invigorating. 

“Well,” Five says. “I wish I could say that this will be fast, but,” he shrugs. “I’d be lying.” He jabs Terminal in the middle of the forehead with the point of the poker. Five wouldn’t say that he _respects_ Doctor Terminal any more for the fact that the man manages not to flinch, but at least he’s dying dignified.

Then, without ceremony or regard for the way that the movement pulls painfully at his chest, Five lifts the poker up above his head and brings it down. There’s a sickening crunch, a backsplash of blood. The body beneath him jerks. And then Five does it again. And again. And again.

Bashing someone’s skull in is an utterly barbaric method of murder. Painful, slow, messy. But Five’s had to do it before, during his time with the Commission, and this time is honestly much more cathartic than the last few.

After a few more good hits, Five’s pretty sure Terminal’s done for. His vision has started swimming a bit, and he has to blink some blood out of his eyes, but Terminal’s face is a gory mess. Parts of it are definitely caved in that _shouldn’t_ be. He slams the poker into the device on Terminal’s chest a few times as well, until the broken, twisted metal sparks and the light inside it sputters out. Good.

Five lets the blood-slick poker drop and turns back to his siblings. Luther’s most of the way through untying everyone—Five is vaguely grateful that Luther hadn’t stopped him towards the end there. The old Luther might have. 

Klaus, at least, had heeded Five’s advice. He’s staring resolutely at the ceiling, a muscle in his face twitching. Diego looks pale. He’s got Vanya off the chair. She still looks mostly out of it. She and Ben are leaning against one another. The tape is gone from Allison’s mouth, and she’s helping apply the pressure bandage that Five had left with Luther to his shoulder. Five can see a strange swelling along her jaw. Broken or dislocated, likely, which would explain why she hadn’t cut in earlier with a rumor.

“Everyone okay?” Five asks, and starts tentatively picking his way towards them. He gets a tentative half-smile and nod from Allison, which is followed pretty immediately by an agonized wince. One of her hands lifts slowly away from Luther’s wound to prod testingly at her jaw.

“Careful,” Five says. “We’ll have Grace fix you up when we get home.”

“We’re good,” Luther confirms. “Thanks for the rescue, Five.” He looks at Five more closely, still disoriented, and then his brow furrows. “Geez. He got some good hits in.”

“Oh _really,”_ Five sneers.

“You should sit down,” Luther says.

“I’m fine,” Five says, in large part because once he sits down, standing up again is going to become a real challenge.

“Jesus Christ,” Klaus says distantly, finally looking down from the ceiling. “Five, what the fuck?”

Five had expected that Klaus wouldn’t take any of this well, not with his background. That doesn’t mean the words don’t sting. He should snap back, but he can’t quite think straight. His head hurts too much. 

He looks away instead.

“Klaus,” that’s Ben this time. Always the voice of reason. A better defender than Five deserves, surely. “It’s okay.”

Five squeezes his eyes shut in frustration, tries to will away his pulsing headache and the grating sounds bickering around him. In retrospect, it’s a horrible mistake. One he should have known better than to make. It means that he doesn’t see his sibling’s eyes widen. Doesn’t really know what’s going on at all, until he hears the strange groan from behind him.

His eyelids snap open, and he turns around just in time to see Terminal lurch to his feet and slam into Five with all his body weight.

Jesus Christ. Shit. How the fuck is this guy still alive? Terminal’s face, a bloody mess, is scant inches away from Five’s own. One of his eyes is bulging strangely from its socket. His breathing is still wrong—gurgling, wet gasps that don’t actually seem to make it into his body, only succeeding in dripping bloody spittle onto Five’s face. This is a dead man walking, alright. Somehow he managed to will up the strength to get back to his feet and kill Five before he finished expiring, though. Five would almost respect it if he weren’t in so much goddamn pain. Five gathers up his power for a jump…and it fizzles.

That’s his limit for the day, then. Impeccable timing, as always.

“Get off of him!” That’s Luther, getting to his feet. Terminal fixes his hand around Five’s throat, and Five sucks in a deep breath before he realizes Terminal is probably going to try and break his neck rather than choke him. It’s the only way he’ll be able to finish the job before Luther pulls him off.

He braces himself. Time seems to slow down for a moment; it’s incredible how much better your brain gets at sensory processing when you’re aware that you’re going to die. But his haze is interrupted by the distant sound of gunfire.

No.

Five gasps. The guard. The surviving guard. They must have shot Luther. They must have shot Luther—

He should have killed them. He should have _fucking killed them_ —

Terminal slumps over.

Five blinks, then scrambles out from under Terminal’s corpse, or at least tries to. But it takes a moment of frantic beating against the man’s shoulder to gain the necessary leverage to pull himself free, and by then Luther is there, grabbing Five by the arms and yanking him the rest of the way out. Five backpedals just in time for the guard, standing exactly where they were before, to tighten their grip on the trigger yet again. They empty the entire clip into Terminal’s skull. By the end, it’s just a mess of viscera, blood and brain matter and bone in a pulp on the floor.

Good.

The guard discards the useless rifle. They’re still shaking.

“Luther,” Five says, voice a murmur. “Get back.”

“What?” Luther still has his hand on Five’s shoulder. “What? No!”

“I said _get back_ ,” Five snaps, batting Luther’s arm away viciously. Luther leans back, startled, backpedaling a few steps at the harsh command, seemingly on instinct alone.

Five can hear the guard breathing, harsh, unsteady gasps that are audible even through their helmet.

“Hey,” Five says, voice low.

Their head jerks up, their vision honing in on Five with a laser-like focus. Five can see one of their eyes through the crack in their mask. It’s light brown, the iris almost completely swallowed by the pupil, blown wide with shock and terror.

They unholster their handgun and point it at Five.

“Woah!” Luther says, and Five can tell he’s about to do something stupid like try and yank Five behind him.

“Luther, stop!” Five says, and Luther does, though he doesn’t relinquish his new grip on Five’s sleeve. Five takes a deep, steadying breath of his own.

“You,” the guard says, and what can Five do but nod and accept it? He’s out of energy—no jumping. Physically trying to dodge out of the way risks putting the bullet in one of his siblings instead. And what verbal defense can he muster? They’re in a building full of corpses, and Five is responsible for all but one. And if you take into account the fact that Terminal would have died anyways…

Yeah, it doesn’t look good.

There’s nothing to say. _It wasn’t personal?_ But it was, and Five thinks they both know it.

“You,” the guard says again. The word is choked. The gun is wavering in the air, and they have to brace their grip with their other hand to hold it steady. 

“Just calm down,” Luther is trying now. It’s futile. Five can already see it in their eyes. He can’t say this is really how he wanted to go out, but he was an assassin long enough to know that even the best of the best rarely die in a blaze of glory. Usually it’s chance and unremarkable, just like this. One slip up that results in you ending up on the wrong side of the trigger.

“It’s okay, Luther,” Five says, then addresses the guard. “Just let my family go. They had nothing to do with this and you know it.”

“Five?” Klaus says from behind him, at the same time as Vanya says, in a halting voice:

“What? No, what are you doing?”

Five exhales. 

“I heard-“ Allison’s voice is wavering, the words coming out a bit strangely because she can’t shape them correctly. She sounds like she’s in excruciating agony. “I heard a rumor that you—”

And then several things happen in quick succession.

The guard fires. Luther yanks at Five’s arm, like he’s trying to pull Five out of the way. Or worse, throw himself in _front_ of Five. Five jerks away. His bad ankle gives out under him. A searing hot line tears through Five’s side.

And then the bullet curves right and hits the wall.

Five collapses to his knees. Luther catches him.

“Let me see, let me see,” Luther is already coaxing, trying to pull Five’s hands away from where they’re clenched over his side. So worried. As if he hadn’t taken a bullet himself not twenty minutes ago. Dumb, selfless bastard. The thought wets Five’s eyes, but Five disregards it. 

The wound’s already bleeding like hell, but Five can tell without looking that it’s more a graze than anything else. So instead of taking the pressure off to gawk at it, like Luther clearly wants, he glances briefly over his shoulder. To where Diego is standing, eyes burning furiously. A single hand outstretched.

God _damn_ , Diego. 

“Good job,” Five croaks. 

Now it’s Five’s turn to get ignored though, apparently. The guard drops the handgun in terror, clearly clever enough to realize how futile it would be to shoot at a man who can curve bullets. They’re shaking harder now than before. Their visible eye flickers around the room, to Five, leaning against Luther and bleeding from his side. To the collection of corpses around them. To Diego, already striding forward.

Five feels something…a pang of pity, nearly. These aren’t good people, he knows. Every single one of Terminal’s hired guns looked at the paycheck being offered for the imprisonment and potential murder of his siblings and decided that it was _worth it_ , and that alone is enough to test Five’s careful control over his sadistic streak. But indulging those impulses without reason veers dangerously close to crossing a line that Five doesn’t think he’ll be able to walk back from.

The guard turns tail and starts to run.

“Motherfucker!” Diego spits. He takes two large steps and picks up the letter opener that Terminal had discarded on the ground. He lifts his arm, hand going up and over his shoulder, poised for a throw.

“Stop,” Five says. “It’s over. They can’t do anything.”

Diego hesitates. He glances between Five and the corner that the guard vanished around.

“Put it down,” Five hisses again, more firmly this time, and Diego lowers his arm, scowling but compliant. “Just-just—”

“They tried to kill you!” Diego jabs his finger down the hallway. “They deserve it!”

“There’s no fucking point, Diego,” Five says. “And while I’m flattered, I promise you: I’ve learned not to take it personally.”

Diego gives a disbelieving snort, but some of the fight goes out of him. “Fine, I guess. People try and kill you a lot?”

“It’s become a regular occurrence, unfortunately,” Five says. He finally takes a moment and takes his hand off the wound to peer at it. It’s really not that bad, barely even visible beneath all the torn cloth. But it is a sharp red furrow across his torso, in parallel to his bottom rib, welling with blood, glossy and bright red. Nothing near fatal, though this one is particularly disgusting to look at, as far as graze wounds go. And though it stings, looking at his ripped blazer is almost more painful. He’s really going through these things quickly. “Ugh.”

“Jesus,” Diego winces. “I’m sorry, Five.”

Five waves him off vaguely. “Don’t worry about it. Could have been _much_ worse. Couple inches to the left and it would have gone through intestine.” 

This does not have the intended effect. “Oh fuck,” Diego says, going a little pale. Five, you could have died, dude.”

Five huffs a little laugh at that. “Gut wounds have a decent survival rate if you make it to the hospital fast enough. Hard to know for sure, since ballistics are a bitch, but don’t look so freaked out.”

Diego looks, somehow, even more dismal at Five’s reassurance.

“Of course,” Five says. “If you hadn’t curved the bullet at all, it probably would have hit something much more important. Diego, seriously. Don’t worry about it.”

“Five’s right, Diego. Besides, that was some _damn fine_ bullet curving.” Klaus crows, trying to elbow Luther out of the way. “Okay, Five, do you want my jacket—”

“Enough,” Five breaks in. Wiggles out of the way from under Klaus, and stands up.

Ouch. His ankle and side ache, but keeping his composure through pain is old hat at this point. Harder is maintaining a straight face at the perilous way the world rotates around him at the suddenness of the movement.

He takes a deep breath.

“Woah,” says Klaus, rising with Five and holding his hands out as if he means to balance Five. “Hold on there, bucko.”

“I’m fine, just,” Five waves a hand at Luther. “Luther, get me a pressure bandage off one of the bodies.”

Luther’s eyes brighten. “Right!” he says, looking far too enthusiastic for a man about to loot a corpse, but he goes off in a second. There’s the sound of someone rummaging through fabric, and then a moment later, Luther is throwing something to Diego who is handing it to Five.

“Here,” Diego says. “You need help.”

“No,” Five moves out from under Diego’s nervous hands. Rips the bandage open with his teeth, and quickly reaches under his shirt to wrap it over his injured side. He manages to get the bandage snug, and knots it so that it stays taut. It presses uncomfortably against his ribs, which makes it untenable in the long term, but preventing blood loss is more important than watching his ribs right at this moment. The white gauze does not immediately start spotting red, which Five is fairly certain is a good sign. Then he straightens his shirt and adjusts his jacket.

“We should go,” he says, and looks up to a sea of baffled looks. “Hello?” he tries again. “Let’s go. Luther, help Ben and Vanya. I saw the van they brought you all in out back.”

“Are we…just going to leave?” Klaus sounds a little baffled.

Five pauses. “Yes?”

“Do we need to do anything about the house full of rotting corpses?”

“Hm,” Five says. “Burn the place down?”

“Five!” says Luther. “That would set fire to the neighborhood.”

“Right,” Five clicks his tongue. 

“We can call Herb,” Diego suggests.

Five frowns. He hates the concept. Especially since, a select few paper-pushers aside, Five still isn’t entirely sure he trusts the Commission, not even this new beast that it’s become.

But while Five is legally dead, his siblings have left DNA all over the place that ties them pretty definitively to the violence just went down here. Not to mention Diego’s ex would also be on the hook for getting Five this address, and Five likes Patch enough that he’d like to avoid getting her arrested.

“That’s a good idea,” Five concedes, in the absence of any better ideas. Diego gives him a startled look.

Luther wrinkles his nose, looking confused. “Herb? What? That accountant dude?”

“Hey, Herb’s legit,” Diego interrupts. “He’s got our backs. He can handle this.”

It takes some more finagling, but Five is finally able to get all his siblings out into the alley. To his surprise, the three bodies from earlier are gone. The guards who’d come out to check on their friends must have taken care of it to ensure that no hapless passerby called the cops.

“Everyone in the back,” Five says. He opens the back door to the van for them, bowing a little, and gestures for them to hop in.

“Okay,” Diego says, as they all clamber in. “So, who’s driving?”

Five shoots Diego an irritated glance as he swings the driver’s side door open. “Who do you think, dipshit?”

“What? No?” Ben sounds like he’s protesting just to be difficult. “I want to drive. I haven’t tried driving since I came back,” he sticks his hand out in Five’s direction, petulant and demanding. “Give me the keys!”

Five stares down at Ben, brow furrowed. “They really hit you with the strong stuff, didn’t they?” he finally asks, reluctantly amused despite himself. 

Ben blinks up at him slowly. “Yup,” he says. “Feels gross, though.” Then he leans over and vomits in Diego’s lap.

“Well,” Five winces. “That’s why _I’m_ driving.”

“You little fuck,” Diego says furiously. “At least let me sit in the passenger’s seat.”

“No. You’re covered in vomit.”

“Can _I—”_

“No, Luther.”

“Me?” Ben tries.

Five pauses, considers. “No. But if you weren’t throwing up everywhere, I’d say yes.”

“I’m not vomiting,” Klaus tries.

A tap on his shoulder. Allison, who jabs a finger in her own direction.

“ _You_ are welcome to it,” Five jerks his head, and Allison beams, which looks quite funny when she’s clearly trying very hard not to smile.

She clambers over the middle of the van and slides into the passenger’s seat beside Five. 

“Keep Vanya and Ben steady,” Five offers to the back. “Otherwise there _will_ be more vomit.” Once Allison is done buckling her seatbelt, Five regards her carefully. The swelling doesn’t seem any more severe than it had a few minutes ago inside. She must have acquired it during her initial capture, and not during her time as a hostage. “Holding up okay?”

Her eyes crinkle in a smile.

“The jaw feeling any better?” Five tries, and she shakes her head _no_ , cringing exaggeratedly. She gives him a big thumbs down. “That bad, huh?” Five grimaces, sympathetic.

He’s just started the engine when he hears it, the distant sound of…barking. Shit.

“Wait a second,” Five says, and steps out.

“Five!” Luther calls after him, alarmed. “Where are you going?”

“I forgot something. I’ll be right back.”

“What? Five!”

“One moment,” Five says, and tries to call on his power. He _really_ doesn’t want to go up all those rickety stairs feeling like this. But the blue light flickers futilely around his hands. Still nothing. Fine. Five makes his way over to the fire escape, ascending them the old-fashioned way. One of his siblings shouts something at him from inside the car that Five can’t quite hear, but he waves them off.

His body is screaming at him furiously the entire time, but eventually he makes it to the rooftop.

“Hi,” Five says, as he swings a leg over the top of the roof. 

The dog turns to him, tail already moving at lightning speed.

“Yeah, yeah,” Five says. “I _said_ I’d come get you down. I wouldn’t have had to leave you up here if you if you weren’t so determined to get yourself shot.”

The dog doesn’t care for the reprimand. It barks at him again, louder, jumping up on its hind paws to claw at Five’s legs.

“You’re going to tear my socks,” Five says, kneeling down. The dog is delighted by the newfound proximity, wiggling happily. It immediately starts investigating Five’s face, snuffling at his ear. Despite its excitement, it doesn’t resist much when Five scoops it up under one arm, though it’s so eager to investigate him that keeping hold of it on his way down is a challenge.

“I hate you,” Five tells the wretched beast again when they get to the ground, just in case its forgotten. He shifts his hold so that the dog is cradled in both arms and not under one arm like a sack, much to its happiness, judging by the renewed tail wagging.

“Shit!” says an alarmed, slightly accented voice. “Kid, are you okay?”

Five blinks and looks up. Standing at the door of the pizzeria, holding a sack full of trash, is a balding man who looks to be in his late sixties.

“Um,” Five says to the man. “Yes.”

The man’s brow furrows. “You are covered in blood. Stay here!” he extends a stalling hand towards Five. “Wait, no! Come inside! I will call the police.”

“ _No!_ ” Five says, and the man jumps. “I mean—” he smiles, as sweetly as he can, makes a show of standing up straight and seeming as uninjured as possible. “I’m just fine, sir. This is a…” he glances down at himself. “Costume.”

The man pauses, lowering his hands hesitantly. 

Five seizes upon it.

“Yeah,” he continues. “A costume…for a…convention?”

The old man scratches the top of his head. 

“Huh,” he says. “Is this a cosplay thing?”

Five blinks. 

“Yes,” he says. “Cosplay.”

The word sounds familiar, but it’s not in Five’s mental dictionary. It’s from the last few decades then, which would explain Five’s confusion. Their dad hadn’t been much for letting them keep up to date with pop culture to begin with and Five…well Five had accidentally skipped over the last seventeen years entirely.

“Who are you supposed to be?” the man’s mustache moves as he talks. Five remembers having a mustache like that once. It hadn’t been his favorite thing in the world, but the Commission had kept him far too busy to care about shaving. 

“Um,” Five has a sneaking suspicion that he’s not supposed to answer honestly.

“Am I supposed to guess?” The man’s brow furrows. “You don’t look like any comic character I know. Are you one of the X-Men?”

Oh. The man thinks he’s dressing up as a fictional character.

Five smiles. “Yes,” he agrees. “I’m an X-Man.”

“And you’re…covered in fake blood?”

“Oh yes. I just lost a fight. I mean, my character did.”

“Huh,” the man says. “You’re very dedicated!”

“Oh, thank you. My…youth group leader says that all the time.” That sounds right, Five thinks. It has the word youth in it.

“Wait,” the man pauses again, thrown. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“Yes,” Five says. “When else would it be?”

“During the day?”

“I have school,” Five says.

The man’s brow is furrowed. Five stands up straighter.

“Son,” the man says. “Maybe I’d better call your parents.”

“No need!” Five says abruptly. “They’re here. DAD! HEY, GET OUT HERE!”

He cringes slightly, the volume of his own voice aggravating his pulsing headache, but plasters a fake smile on his face anyways.

There’s the sudden sound of abrupt, loud arguing from the van. Five grimaces.

“Sorry,” he says, just in time for one of the doors to the van to swing open long enough for Klaus to pop out, looking dazed.

“Helloooo,” Klaus drawls, staggering over. He somehow manages to look spectacularly drunk despite the fact that Five _knows_ he hasn’t touched a drop of alcohol since the second Apocalypse. “It’s my beautiful son, and his…” Klaus pauses, leans forward, and narrows his eyes. “Dog. His dog that he got. At some point. Which I knew about, because I’m his father.”

“Yes,” Five cuts off Klaus’ rambling with a hiss. “I was just telling this nice gentleman about how we are going to the…cosplay convention.”

“The cosplay convention,” Klaus echoes. Five can already see his lips twitching. 

“It’s pretty late for a kid his age to be running off somewhere alone,” the pizza guy says, slightly apologetically. “Just wanted to check in and make sure everything is alright.”

“Oh, it’s okay. I appreciate your concern, fair citizen,” Klaus says lazily. “I think what my son _meant_ to say is that we are on our way _back_ from the convention.”

Oh. That _is_ better. Whoops. “Yes,” Five says, forcing a smile. “That.” 

“Ah, I see,” the pizza guy says, though not before he stops to give Five a funny look. “I’ll let you get goin’ then, since it’s a school night. My apologies for the trouble.”

“Noooo,” Klaus drawls, then for some reason thinks it’s okay to lean forward and lovingly clasp the pizza man’s hands between his own. “I appreciate your concern so much. _So much_.”

“Right…” the pizza guy says, stepping back. “Hey, before you go. That’s a cute dog. What’s its name?”

“Um,” says Five. 

“Uh, the dog’s name is…”

“Penny,” Five says, at the same time as Klaus starts to say: “Chris—”

“I mean,” Klaus cuts himself off. “Penny…cris…”

“Pennycrumb,” Five says desperately.

“ _Yes!_ ” Klaus says. He leans back and slings an arm around Five’s shoulders, pulling him close. Five’s ribs twinge, and he glares up at Klaus. Klaus doesn’t notice, apparently too focused on locking them into the most awkward embrace any fake father-son duo has ever endured. “Pennycrumb! That’s our dog! Mr. Pennycrumb.” Klaus leans down and whispers in Five’s ear. “Wait, is it a he?”

“I. Don’t. Fucking. Know.” Five whispers back, and then subtly elbows Klaus in the ribs.

“Okay,” says the pizza man. He’s backing away slowly, which Five takes to be a good sign. “I’m glad that you’re safe, then.” He reaches the door. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight!” Klaus says, delighted. The man slams the door. Five groans.

“Come on,” he says, walking back to the car.

“Hey,” Klaus jogs after him. “I think that went great. We should do that more often.”

“No,” Five tells him. “That was horrible…but I don’t think he’s going to call the cops.”

“Eh, he’ll just think we’re weird forever. Hey, what if I drove instead?”

“No,” Five says. “In the back. That’s where the children sit.”

“Boo.”

“You’ll live,” Five swings the driver’s seat open. His head is pounding. He wishes he’d brought some advil. Klaus clambers back into the back as Five buckles in.

“Is that a fucking dog?” says Diego.

“Mr. Pennycrumb,” Klaus croons.

“Oh,” says Luther, sounding positively starstruck. “He’s so small.”

“He is?” says Vanya longingly. “I want to see him.”

“You can barely lift your head,” Diego tells her. “You can see the dog Five stole later.”

“I didn’t steal anything,” Five says through gritted teeth.

“Oh my God,” Ben says, apparently not aware of his own delayed processing time. “There’s a dog? I love it.”

“High Ben and Vanya are my favorite,” Klaus says. “I would die for them.”

“You will,” says high Ben. “What were we talking about again?”

“Allison,” Five beseeches, and she gives him a muffled but pained chuckle. She picks the dog up from Five’s lap. Mr. Pennycrumb looks distraught for a split second before he realizes that he’s being moved from one lap to another, and then he starts jumping again. Allison has to twist away to keep his head from colliding with the underside of her injured jaw.

“Okay,” Five says. “Let’s go home.”

Their arrival back home is unexciting. It takes…unfortunately long. Five has an agonizing headache, and they’re moving at a grand total of fifteen miles per hour, and when he parks (several blocks away, just to be safe, though he’ll tell Herb that the car needs to be destroyed too) he doesn’t so much get the car _adjacent_ to the meter so much as he just. Runs it over.

“Wow,” says Diego, as he and Klaus struggle to support Vanya between them. Luther is carrying Ben, cradled in his arm. “We are never letting you drive anywhere again.”

“Fuck off, Diego,” Five says.

Allison gets ushered off first by a tutting, concerned Grace, but not before she puts down the dog, who immediately wanders over to the nearest table and pisses on it.

“Oh no,” Vanya says, voice wavering, and then bursts into hysterical giggles. Five sighs.

“Get them to the infirmary, Luther,” he says, waving them away.

Luther stops and glares. “Five, you’re coming too.”

“I am,” Five agrees. He is many things, but immune to internal bleeding is not one of them, and there are only so many things that he can patch himself up. “I’ll be down in a moment. I have to call Herb.”

Luther calls after him. He sounds upset, but Five ignores him, already halfway up the stairs. The dog is still circling in the entryway, but after a moment Five hears it bark, startled, and then hears the sound of claws scrabbling against the hardwood as the dog anxiously tries to follow him up the steps with its small body. 

Five picks up the phone from the wall. He calls Herb, dialing the Commission number with hands that don’t shake. The call gets picked up after two rings, and luckily for them Herb is accommodating enough and seems happy to oblige the request. He owes Five nothing, but Five is intimidating enough by reputation alone, and Herb somehow actually has a _rapport_ with Diego. But most importantly, Herb seems to know that when the Hargreeves get wrapped up in trouble, the damage radius tends to be far-reaching, and it’s better to mitigate things ahead of time if possible.

“Sure thing, Five,” Herb says pleasantly. “We can get that taken care of for you. Diego make it out okay?”

“Not a hair out of place,” Five promises.

“Exactly what I’d expect from two legends!” Herb is, somehow, audibly beaming. Five bites his tongue, swallows the automatic retort that rises in his throat at the implication that Diego’s hour-long stint at the Commission somehow put him on _Five’s_ level.

“Appreciate it,” Five says instead. “Hey, I heard that you got the vote to be the new Chair of the Board. Congrats.”

“Oh!” Herb says. “Thank you!”

“Listen,” Five tells him. “I just wanted to say. If someone makes a power play…I’ll back you. Understand?” 

“Aw,” Herb sounds genuinely touched. “That’s mighty kind of you, Five, but things seem to be settling into place nicely. I don’t think it will be necessary.”

“I certainly hope not,” Five says. This is not a promise that he makes lightly, after all, and it will cost him if he has to keep it. Which he very well might. This poor, dumb guy doesn’t seem to understand the circling pit of sharks that makes up the Commission. But he’ll be the first to admit that the offer is more selfish than Herb seems to realize. Five is probably never going to _like_ the Commission, but things have been calm since the Commission’s leadership changed hands to someone who didn’t actively want Five’s head on a pike. He’d like to keep it that way if he can.

“Well, I’ll dispatch our clean-up team right away,” Herb says. “Take care. Tell Diego I said hi?”

“Sure,” Five agrees. The dog, who has been sniffing around their father’s expensive, antique carpet, wanders up to Five and whines.

“Oh!” says Herb. “Did you guys get a do—”

Five hangs up. His hand leaves a bloody, sticky print on the black plastic as he puts the phone back in its receiver.

His head is spinning, his chest tight and aching. He’s starving, but he kind of wants to be sick too.

He wants to go downstairs, catalogue every inch of his siblings to make sure that he didn’t miss anything important. To see if they’ll vanish under his grasp, like the version of Klaus that he found in the bathroom, soaked in blood. 

Five probably _should_ do that, like he promised he would. He could let Grace check him over, take care of his ribs, properly bandage the wound on his side, get a scan for internal bleeding. All that jazz. And he will. He will.

But he’s covered in grime and blood. He can taste it in his mouth, and since he didn’t bite anyone during the fight, he thinks it must be his own. And his skin is so itchy, dried blood peeling off him in flakes. He needs…he needs to take a shower.

So he does. Five limps his way over to the nearest bathroom, stepping over the puddle of vomit he’d left behind earlier. Then he drags himself over the side of the tub and turns on the water.

Later, he’ll wander down to their infirmary. Ben and Vanya will be sleeping off the worst of the drugs, Allison’s jaw will be bandaged, and Luther will have a neat row of stitches across his chest. Later, Five will let their mom fuss over him, patching up his injuries and running all the scans she wants.

For now, he just sits under the spray as the dog scratches at the bathroom door, howling desperately, and watches the cloudy red water spiral down the drain.

**Author's Note:**

> WHOOP
> 
> as always, sorry for any wonky grammar. the second chapter of this is completely written, but its being edited. should be up this weekend-ish? (edit: okay, sorry, it took me longer than the weekend. It's REALLY close to being done; I'm just finicky and also rewriting some parts, and it's taking me a little extra time because of school things :/)
> 
> (also- things that I anticipate people asking about: 1-five used the fireplace poker at the end because he was concussed as hell and he defaulted to the first thing that came to mind, which was the last weapon he used. 2- pennycrumb is a jack russell, maybe a jack russell mix. :') )
> 
> Come talk to me about things on [tumblr](https://e-vasong.tumblr.com/), if you want!
> 
> comments press the serotonin button in my brain!!


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